Even prayer
, she resolved with a lift of her chin, something she wasn’t sure would actually work. Faith and Brady were big on it, she knew, as were Luke, Parker, and the rest of her family, but to Katie, God had always seemed too far away, too distant, and too impractical in a world where reality called the shots. And yet, strangely enough, that mindset had been challenged by a simple young woman with childlike faith and steel braces on her legs. And in her spine too, apparently, Katie thought with a quirk of her lips. The day she had spent working in the kitchen with Alli had opened her eyes considerably. On the surface this frail, handicapped woman elicited pity, appearing to have no hope or prospects for her future. But inside, Katie had discovered a vibrant powerhouse of prayer who emanated a calm assurance that “Jesus will take care of me.”
Katie’s lips squirmed to the right as her gaze flitted upward. “Okay, Jesus,” she muttered under her breath, “if you really are up there listening like Alli seems to think you are, please take care of her and help me to convince Emma to give her a job.”
She yanked on the heavy glass door emblazoned with D
ENNEHY
’s in graceful gold script and instantly felt a sense of peace. Whether it was from the cozy feel of one of Boston’s most stylish department stores or the prayer was anybody’s guess. Dominating half the block, Dennehy’s had expanded from a quaint single storefront that Mitch had bought for Charity after they were married, to a charming emporium that rivaled the bigger stores in popularity. Not as large or as sophisticated as Filene’s, which occupied an entire city block on Washington and Summer, Dennehy’s catered to a simpler clientele. Here, those who appreciated the warmth and courtesy of a specialty store in a small-scale department store could browse everything from fashion and toiletries to home goods and more. Lily of the valley teased her senses, and Katie glanced at a young woman testing perfumes on her wrist at a glass counter that showcased the latest in Paris scents.
Across the way an intricately carved wood display featured a charming array of ladies’ hats – from large-brimmed garden-party varieties to lavish veiled “celebrity hats” à la Joan Crawford and Clara Bow, several bedecked with sequins for evening wear. Still in vogue, there were plenty of beloved cloche hats that fitted tightly to the head and rested just above the eyes, tempting shoppers with an endless variety of styles, be it skull cap or turban. A bored-looking manikin modeled the latest eared cloche with tucks and swirls that swooped over her ears and up in front and the back. A pretty silk flower bloomed from the side of the hat, coordinating nicely with a tall vase of silk flowers in the center of the table.
Viewing the simple elegance of the displays, Katie once again marveled at the miracle that was Emma Malloy. Charity’s best friend from Dublin ten years hence, Emma had co-managed the store with Charity that first year until her sister had gotten pregnant and Mitch insisted she quit. Since then, Emma had single-handedly transformed “Dennehy’s Emporium” from a quaint mom-and-pop storefront into a thriving mercantile. She’d even talked Mitch and Charity into changing the name to Dennehy’s Department Store to capitalize on the recent trend of larger, more sophisticated stores. A natural-born merchant, Emma had been given free rein by Charity and Mitch, an investment that had paid off handsomely for Katie’s sister and brother-in-law, as evidenced by the people milling throughout the store. No, in Katie’s mind, there was no doubt – strong, quiet Emma Malloy was just the person to take little Alli under her wing.
“Katie! What are you doing here today?”
She glanced up to see the woman in her thoughts bounding toward her with a stack of papers fluttering in her hands, the pretty tilt of the left corner of her lips contrasting with the mottled scar on the right. “Looking for a new dress for a date with Jack?”
Katie studied Charity’s friend with sudden curiosity. Without question, Emma Malloy had been as beautiful as Charity at one time, before a philandering sot of husband had reshaped her features with a pan of hot grease. Her heartshaped face lent itself to a delicate and graceful air with soft, grey eyes that evoked the gentleness of a fawn. A nose that could only be described as “classic” was strong and straight with the barest upturn at the tip. Rich, chestnut hair, shimmering from the crystal chandelier overhead, was styled in the latest Joan Crawford look, parted on the side and sleek from the crown until it curled below her ears. Wisps of bangs feathered her forehead, accentuating a perfectly manicured brow while the other arched over a scar long since faded with time.
As Charity’s best friend, Emma seemed the perfect balance for Katie’s mischievous sister – shy and demure rather than sassy and bold, totally content for Charity to shine while she herself faded into the shadows. And yet, despite quietly stepping to the background, Emma possessed a strength of character that was hard to miss, radiating joyous calm as surely as the sun radiated warmth. Without question, she was a stabilizing factor – not only for Charity, but for anyone Emma came in contact with. Even now, just a hint of a smile in those gentle eyes had the same calming effect as a cleansing sigh, relaxing the tightness in Katie’s neck and stomach.
She sucked in a deep swallow of air and released it, returning Emma’s smile with a bright one of her own. “Not really. I’m afraid I have more important things on my mind than Jack.”
A twinkle lit Emma’s eyes as she hugged the papers to her chest. “More important than Jack? Well, now you’ve piqued my interest.”
“Good,” Katie said with a tug of Emma’s arm. “Do you have a moment to talk in your office, or is this a bad time?” “No, now is perfect – I was just going to have lunch.” Emma led her through the store and up to her office on the second floor while Katie studied her out of the corner of her eye. Although only inches taller than Katie’s five foot two, Emma seemed almost willowy with her slow and graceful stride, as if she floated on air rather than always rushing as Katie was prone to do. Katie released another breath and matched her pace to Emma’s, grateful for the calming effect of this woman.
Nodding at several employees on the way, Emma finally opened a bubbled glass door at the rear of the store and invited Katie in. She smiled at a big-bone, olive-skinned woman who seemed better suited as a warden in a women’s prison than a secretary for one of Boston’s most popular stores. Decidedly too large for the small, wooden desk at which she sat, the woman looked up with a scowl that rivaled Patrick O’Connor’s on his worst disciplinary day.
“You know those three dozen Panama straws we ordered from DelMonico’s?” The woman’s scarlet lips flattened as she waved a paper in the air. Her mouth slanted into a caustic smile. “They forgot to send the pitchfork and tractor.”
A heavy sigh drifted from Emma’s lips, the closest thing to a complaint Katie had ever heard out of her. “Oh, Bert, no . . . They sent the farmer’s straw instead of the boaters?”
“Yep. ’Course, I’m thinking we can always hurl a few hay bales and a couple cow patties in the window and stage a hoedown.” Bert slapped the sheet of paper on the desk with a slam that jolted Katie.
Emma seemed undaunted, either by the situation or Bert’s crusty manner. “Well, we’ll just have to send them back with a note explaining it’s the straw boaters or nothing, which is a real shame. The salesman for DelMonico’s has been so nice.” She gave Bert’s shoulder a comforting squeeze as she moved past the desk toward her office door, then paused to shoot a smile over her shoulder. “Oh, Bert, this is Charity’s sister, Katie O’Connor.”
“Hi, Bert,” Katie said with trepidation. She stuck out a tentative hand, somewhat nervous that the woman just might crush it.
The warden grunted and offered a handshake that seemed more of a threat than a greeting.
“The Schiaparelli collection hasn’t come in by chance, has it?” Emma asked. “Patrice tells me she’s already had several requests.”
Dark thunderous eyebrows dipped low over slitted hazel eyes. “Yep – bathing suits, skiwear, linen dresses, you name it. But dollars to doughnuts Filene’s had their order first.”
“Go to lunch, Bert,” Emma said softly. “I’ll cover till Cora gets back, okay?”
The woman lumbered up from the chair with a low rumble of words, and the slow rise of her wide girth reminded Katie of a volcano about to spew. “Heaven knows when that’ll be,” she mumbled under her breath. “Spends more time filing her nails than that stack of purchase orders on her desk. When she isn’t making personal phone calls, that is.”
Emma chuckled. “You know Cora has a lot to do in the next few weeks before the wedding. Besides, you’re just hungry, and you know it. Go on – scoot. Tell Mario to give you that free lunch he promised us last week.”
“Promised
you
, you mean,” Bert emphasized with a lift of her formidable chin. Waves of black hair tinged with silver hugged her head in the slicked-down style of the day, doing nothing to soften her intimidating air. “I’m not takin’ your lunch.”
“Take it,” Emma ordered with more force than Katie was used to. “I brought two hard-boiled eggs and an apple, so tell Mario to give the lunch to you, you hear? No arguments.”
“Humph. That won’t make him none too happy – it’s you he’ll be looking for.” Bert turned at the door and aimed a menacing finger toward the stack of purchase orders on Cora’s desk. “Don’t let me catch you filing her orders, Miss Emma.”
Emma grinned. “Go – eat your lunch and tell Mario I said hi. And come back in a better mood or I’ll make Horace help you with inventory.”
A reluctant smile flickered across Bert’s wide mouth, and for the first time, without the nasty face, Katie could see that she was actually rather pretty for a middle-aged woman whose height and weight commanded respect. “You sic that old man on me, Miss Emma, and I guarantee you’ll be looking for a new employee.”
“You would never leave me, Bert, and we both know it,” Emma said with a smile.
Bert’s eyes narrowed. “I was talking about Horace. ’Cause if that man comes near me during inventory one more time, he’ll be strung up in a hospital with both legs in a cast.” She opened the door and shuddered. “Eat your egg.”
The door slammed behind her, and Katie blinked. “My, what an . . . interesting woman.”
A grin lit Emma’s face. “That she is. Bert’s been with me for almost ten years now, and she’s nothing more than a pussycat with porcupine quills. But it’s all a front, you know. She has a heart as big as she is gruff – wouldn’t hurt a fly. I honestly couldn’t run the store without her.”
“Bert? Short for . . . ?”
“Bertolina, but she absolutely hates that name, so don’t tell her I told you.”
Katie glanced at the door with a lift of her brows. “Not on your life. I’d rather stay on her good side . . . if she has one.”
Emma chuckled and sat in her chair behind a battered desk neatly piled with invoices and a mockup of a newspaper ad for the store. A warm breeze from an arched window behind her fluttered the back of her hair as she pulled a paper bag out of a drawer and released a weighty sigh. “So, Katie, what brings you to Dennehy’s?” She glanced at her watch. “I assume you’re on lunch hour at the BCAS? Have you eaten? I have two hard-boiled eggs I can share.”
“No, no, I’ve eaten, but thank you.” Katie slipped into the chair by the side of Emma’s desk and locked gazes with Charity’s friend. “But I do have something I need . . .”
With an inquisitive smile, Emma unwrapped a piece of parchment that contained a small pile of salt. She tapped the egg on the edge of her desk and began to peel, assessing Katie through curious eyes. “Really? What?”
“A favor actually, for a friend. One who needs a job pretty badly.”
A wrinkle puckered Emma’s brow indicating she was thinking as she finished peeling the shell. She tapped the white of the egg in the salt and took a bite. “What kind of job? Sales?”
“I’m not sure she could handle sales . . .” Katie fidgeted with her fingers, hesitating as she worked her lip. “You see, when she gets nervous or meets someone for the first time, she has a terrible stutter, and she’s very slow of speech.”
“Oh.” Emma continued chewing, eyes squinted as she gave it more thought. “Well, then, what about janitorial?”
“No, that wouldn’t work either, I’m afraid.” Katie’s gaze flicked up. “She had polio as a child and wears cumbersome leg braces. It’d be hard for her to get around the store, I’m sure.”
The egg froze midair, halfway to Emma’s mouth. Compassion softened the gray of her eyes as her voice lowered to a whisper. “Oh, God love her . . .”
Katie sucked in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, determination steeling her words. “Well, that’s just it, Emma. Alli – that’s her name, Alli Moser – believes with all of her heart that God
does
love her and fully expects him to find her a job. But she turns eighteen in several months, you see, and the BSCG has to either place her in an apprenticeship with a family, find her a job where she can support herself, or . . .” The air seemed trapped in Katie’s lungs before she released it in one arduous exhale. “Be turned out on the streets to fend for herself.”
The hitch of Emma’s breath was as harsh as the burn in Katie’s throat at the thought of Alli on the streets, and when she saw tears glimmer in Emma’s eyes, she had no power over those in her own. She placed a tentative hand on Emma’s arm. “She has no family, Emma, and the worst part is she’s epileptic. When people hear that, well, understandably . . . they’re afraid.”
Emma nodded slowly, then swallowed hard and placed the half-eaten egg on the parchment. “How is she with numbers, then? Things like filing, typing, general office work?”
A slow grin eased across Katie’s face. “She’s a champ. She may seem slow because of her speech, but I swear her mind is sharper than yours or mine. And she’s a whiz at numbers.” The edges of Emma’s mouth curled into a beautiful smile. “Is she, now?”
Both looked up at the sound of a timid knock. “Miss Emma?”
“Yes, Horace?” Emma smiled at a slight, balding man hovering in the door.
“Just received a box of what looks like dark eyeglasses from something called the Foster Grant company and, uh, well . . . I’m not real sure what to do with ’em.”