Last Call at the Nightingale by Katharine Schellman

Author:Katharine Schellman [Schellman, Katharine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

* * *

“Who was that?” Florence asked as Vivian came back inside, not looking up from the dresses she was rolling dry between two threadbare towels.

Vivian shrugged, even though her sister wasn’t watching. “Fella I know.”

She could see Florence’s shoulders tense, and waited for the inevitable questions, the suspicions and warnings. But to her surprise they didn’t come. “I think the mud came out,” Florence said instead, straightening as she gestured to the gowns.

Vivian sighed. “Thank God. I’m sorry to make more work for you, Flo.”

“I’m just glad Miss Ethel let you keep your job. Lord knows we can’t afford to lose one,” Florence said as they draped the dresses over the backs of kitchen chairs to finish drying. “And it looks like the pins all stayed in place, in spite of your fall, so I should be able to get them finished up pretty quick.”

“Well, for now, why don’t you take a bit of a breather?” Vivian suggested, grabbing one of the damp towels and the small soap bag they kept hanging by the sink. “I’m going to go wash up and fix my hair, and then I’ll run out to get us some groceries.”

The washroom at the end of the hall was shared between all the tenants on the floor, and Vivian had to wait for Mrs. Gonzales and her three-year-old twins to finish before she could get in. She washed her face, neck, and hands once it was her turn, checking over her injuries again and making sure they were as inconsequential as she wanted them to be. Her neck was still scraped up, and the bruises below her collarbone meant she’d have to be careful about what she wore for a few days. But overall, she could push her various aches to the back of her mind.

When she returned to the apartment, she was already planning what groceries they could afford and how she could turn them into a meal that might last a few days. She was brought up short, however, when she saw a large paper bag sitting on the table, Florence looking between it and her with raised eyebrows.

“What’s that?” Vivian asked, frowning in confusion.

“You tell me,” her sister replied. “I told him I wasn’t opening it until you got back and said whether it was a good idea or not.”

“Told who?” Vivian asked, taking the bag when Florence held it out to her.

Inside were half a dozen paper boxes from the automat: roast beef sandwiches dripping with gravy, baked apples with cream, ham and peas, baked beans, potato salad, and a slice of blueberry pie that was big enough for four people. Two bottles of soda water were nestled at the very bottom. Vivian unwrapped them all and laid them on the table, the puzzled expression never leaving her face until Florence pointed to the note scribbled on the bag in pencil.

I know you can take care of yourself.

But this time, how about I take care of dinner.

Leo

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