The Scent of Gardenias by Lorraine Haas

Author:Lorraine Haas [Haas, Lorraine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fiction
Publisher: Morewellson, Ltd.
Published: 2022-03-29T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Margaret took her time dressing even though she would be going out with a bunch of people rather than on an official date. She chose the only smart suit she had, the one she’d worn when she’d married Leland. Tom arrived and was waiting on Katie to put on her hat when Margaret realized she’d left her gloves downstairs when she’d picked up the mail.

Skipping the elevator, she scurried down the stairs. As she rounded the corner, she spotted them on the floor, smudged with dirt and grime. She would have to go without gloves unless Katie had another pair. As she turned around, a little boy rushed by, his hand in his mother’s, and Margaret stepped back to prevent a collision.

Unfortunately, that put her in contact with a radiator. Before she knew it, she moved forward and felt the pull on her stocking.

No. Not today, of all days.

Then came the familiar sensation of the stockings laddering on her calf.

No, no, no.

She pulled her skirt up to see the damage. There would be no way to mend them or stop the destruction. Her lip quivered with a mix of anger and upset. Other than the white stockings she wore with her nurse uniform, she had no more nylons. She didn’t want to show up in socks either. Maybe she could borrow a pair from the other girls.

Margaret rushed over to the elevator and climbed inside. The doors opened, and as another couple moved out, she shot past the elevator operator, who bore a confused look on his face. He held up his finger, but Margaret shot him a look that stopped him. He punched a button, the elevator doors shutting behind her. She didn’t have time to listen to whatever he had to say.

She rushed down the hall to clasp at the doorknob. The door wouldn’t budge. She hurried to grab her keys, wondering if her friends had already left without her.

The key wouldn’t fit the lock. Her brows knit together. She jammed the key harder, but it wouldn’t go in. She tried again. Something must be wrong with my key.

Finally, in frustration, she banged on the door. “Katie, let me in. The key’s not working.”

As she waited, Margaret agonized over the destroyed stocking on her leg, most likely beyond repair and only good for holding onions or potatoes or donating it to the war effort.

The door cracked open.

“Will you look at this?” She gestured to the rip. “Of all the times—” She looked up, and her mouth dropped open.

A familiar woman with wavy chestnut hair stood in front of her in a floral silk dressing gown.

“What is it, honey? Cat got your tongue?”

“I thought—I, um, my apartment.” She pointed down to the floor. “I—” She lost control, and tears slid down her face. She’d made a fool of herself, and no one would believe her when she told them who had witnessed it.

The woman appraised her with large, saucerlike eyes. “Honey, we all have those days. Come in. Don’t stand in the hall.

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