Lilies of the Bowery by Lily R. Mason

Author:Lily R. Mason [Mason, Lily R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781507851272
Amazon: B00SQQFHGW
Barnesnoble: B00SQQFHGW
Goodreads: 24916446
Publisher: CreateSpace
Published: 2015-02-14T03:00:00+00:00

***

Over the next several days, I worked on the dress to display in the front of the shop. Paloma helped me when she could, always eager to sit by my side and work the treadle while her head rested on my shoulder. When she had to tend to the front of the shop, her absence felt strange, as though I was always meant to have a gentle weight on my shoulder to ensure my seams would hold fast.

When the bells tolled seven o’clock on Saturday evening, I clenched my hands together so they wouldn't flutter about and distract me from what I needed to tell Paloma. Normally I was weary and sad to part from her for a whole day, but Mamma had instructed me not to forget to tell Paloma what time we would be having supper the following night. I was anxious about her seeing my apartment, but delighted in knowing I would see her in just twenty-four hours’ time.

“Mamma wanted me to tell you we’ll be eating supper tomorrow at seven o’clock,” I said in a rush.

Paloma's head turned to look at me. After a moment she turned back to where she was bent over a wash basin, but not before I saw her smile.

“Is that so?” she asked.

“Si.”

It was quiet for a moment, save for the sloshing of the laundry in the tub.

“Tell her to kindly inform me what I can bring to her table.” Even though she was turned away from me, I could hear she was still smiling.

“Nothing.” I tried to ignore the shame I knew would encompass me when she saw how small our quarters were and how humble our suppers. I couldn't bear to ask her to bring anything that might contrast our meal with its grandiosity.

“Not even a jar of pickles?” Her question lilted upward as though she was laughing.

I smiled with her, happy to see her so lighthearted and content. “I suppose that would be permissible.”

She stood, wringing her hands free of the harsh water. “Bene,” she said, wiping them on her apron. Then she calmed and looked at me with softening mirth. “It will be an honor to eat at your table.”

“It's Mamma's table,” I mumbled. “I don't think I'll ever have my own table.”

All traces of mirth evaporated and Paloma's face grew solemn. “Perhaps your table isn't one for food.”

When I gave her a questioning look, she nodded toward the building in the direction of my sewing nook, where I knew a table was littered with thread and fabric scraps and other tools of my craft.

I felt my heart warm at her attempt to comfort me. “Perhaps.”

She wrung her hands once more on her apron.

“I’ll get your pay.”

I followed her inside, expecting her to hurry toward the cash register and withdraw three dollar bills as she always did. But before she reached the curtain, she turned on her heel and reached for my hands, drawing them around her waist before she took my face in her hands and

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