All That Glitters

“All or nothing, huh?” Ivory murmured.

Dee nodded. “No great risk, no great reward, and something about ‘daring greatly.’” She frowned. “Who said that? I can’t remember.”

“Helen Keller and Teddy Roosevelt, I think, but not at the same time.”

“Well?”

Ivory sat down. “I’m not brave enough yet,” she said with a rueful smile. “I have a job and an apartment and Christmas is next month.”

Dee laughed. “Okay. How about in the spring?”

“Good enough. The homeless shelter should be pretty warm by then.”

“You idiot. A woman of your talents won’t have to go on the streets.”

“I can name you three people who felt that way, and they ended up there,” Ivory said solemnly. “You ought to remember, too, because you introduced them to me at the shelter. Two of them had five-figure salaries and the third worked in real estate. They went from Lincolns to park benches in a few weeks.”

Dee shuddered. “It’s scary.”

“Scary, indeed,” came the reply. “What does Mr. Kells look like, do you know?” she asked Dee curiously.

“I caught only a glimpse of him. He’s tall and visually challenged. I’ll ask around, if you’re really curious.”

Visually challenged. Did Dee mean that he wore glasses? Probably. “I just wondered if he was old and set in his ways or young enough to entertain new ideas,” she replied.

Dee fingered her collar. “He took over the company months ago, just before you came, and he hasn’t fired Miss Raines yet,” she said firmly. “What does that tell you?”

“That he admires loyalty to the company and that he doesn’t like change, even though he would like to see some originality.”

“Bingo.”

“Then why did you suggest that I take him my designs?”

“Because you’re talented. And I think any man brave enough to take on a failing design firm is brave enough to stick out his neck for something different.” Dee added a remark about a two-man team of Italian designers who’d just burst onto the fashion scene with some romantic Spanish-inspired designs that were selling like hotcakes. “Who’d have backed them last year when women’s suits looked like those communist Chinese uniforms?”

“They did not!” Ivory protested.

“Plain straight-skirted suits with scooped-neck blouses of various colors, and no trim. Yuck! I wouldn’t be caught dead in one!”

“Beats miniskirts.”

Dee reluctantly agreed. “Especially with my legs...”

“Miss Grier!” a strident voice called. “You are not paid to converse with other employees!”

“Yes ma’am, Miss Raines, I was just asking Miss Keene if she wanted to have lunch with me at the new Japanese sushi place.” She smiled sweetly. “You could come, too, if you like.”

“I never eat fish, especially raw fish. God alone knows what pollutants are in the water where they’re caught.” She kept walking, her back like a poker.

Dee’s face reddened as she tried not to laugh. She looked at Ivory, and it was fatal. Mirth burst the restraints, to be quickly disguised as coughing.

Ivory watched her retreat and turned back to her own work before Miss Raines had time to notice that she wasn’t doing what she’d been told. Would it be worth a trip to Mr. Kells’s office to show him those designs? Or would she lose her job? If only she weren’t so afraid of being out of work.

But she was. A homeless shelter was a poor accommodation in November, when snow flurries had already come calling, along with subfreezing temperatures. No, she decided. It might be better to wait just a little longer before she risked everything on such a gamble. Besides, Dee’s description of Mr. Kells as visually challenged niggled at the back of her mind. What if she meant that he only had one eye? It would be just her luck to walk into his office and discover that he was the same ill-tempered, despondent man who’d mistaken her for a beggar and handed her a five-dollar bill for a meal!

CHAPTER TWO (#u74fe02ea-31e9-5cf5-b2a0-fb2b09030f32)

ON SATURDAY MORNING, Ivory set out for the homeless shelter, where she was to meet Dee and work for a few hours. The volunteer work kept her mind off her own problems and gave her something to do with her free time.

There was a small corner grocery store near the shelter. She stopped there just as Mr. Galloway, the tall, elderly owner, opened up behind the strong iron bars that protected his shop from vandals.

“Good morning!” she greeted in her now accentless voice. “I thought I might take the children at the shelter some fruit.”

“Got in some fresh oranges yesterday,” he said, smiling at her over his narrow glasses as he indicated them. “Nice and sweet.”

“Just the thing,” she said, and picked out a handful. “When I become very rich, I’ll come back and buy several cases for all my friends.”

He chuckled at the mischief in her face. “I believe you.” He handed her an orange with a flourish. “Compliments of the management.”

“Thanks! I wish I had something to give you,” she said wistfully. He really was an old dear, so kind to everyone who patronized his store. An idea lit her face. “I could design you an apron,” she offered.

He looked down at his ample girth. “Better make it a tent.”

Her eyes narrowed in thought. “Just you wait,” she promised, measuring him with her gaze. She was good at estimating sizes. “Come Christmas, you’ll be the smartest-looking grocer around.”

“Nothing fancy,” he cautioned. “I cut meat in the back.”

“I know.” She picked up her bag and put the change he handed her from a five-dollar bill into her purse.

“Be careful going down the street,” he added. “We’ve got some roughnecks around here lately.”

“I know. Tim told me.”

He knew Tim. Most everyone in the neighborhood did. “Pity about him, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “All children should have someplace to live...”

“No, I mean about what he’s got.”

Her hand stilled on her purse. “What has he got?” she queried. “He was cheerful and laughing the last time I saw him.”

“He didn’t find out until today. His mama came in about an hour ago for some formula for the baby. She told me.” He grimaced. “Social services ran some tests last week on a few kids at the shelter, including Tim. Got the results this morning. He’s HIV-positive. She said she’d have to tell him. Poor woman. She was scared.”

She caught her breath painfully. “No wonder! But he’s just eight years old.”

“Some babies are born with it,” he reminded her. “But his mama doesn’t shoot up. In Tim’s case, they think it was a contaminated needle...”

“Tim doesn’t shoot up!” she exclaimed.