“I’ve missed you too.” I have, Jordan thought. I have.
“Mr. Kolb’s already gone,” Tony said. “There won’t be much to do here.”
Jordan hesitated. Her father wouldn’t have left any new clerk alone in the shop until they had a good month under their belt and he was absolutely certain he hadn’t hired a thief. But Tony had worked a flawless three weeks, and Anneliese had given her seal of approval. “You know how to close up,” she told Tony, handing over the keys. “Come on, Ruthie. Want to go to the movies?”
Ruth’s imaginary bow stopped midarc. She had been mesmerized by Cinderella early that year; she’d driven Anneliese mad begging for pet mice. “Cinderella?”
“Get your glass slippers, princess.” Tony put her imaginary violin into a case with great care. “You just leave that with me, I’ll keep it safe for your violin lessons . . .”
Garrett was holding the door, smiling, but Jordan paused, struck by a sudden idea.
“Don’t forget this, Miss McBride.” Tony held out the print of Jordan’s father that she’d left on the counter, trimmed and ready for framing. He lingered a minute, looking at it. “Your father?”
“Yes.” Jordan felt a lump in her throat. She could mention him with ease a hundred times, and on the hundred and first for no reason at all her throat would close up. She wished she understood it. Maybe it would hurt less. Probably not.
“It’s a good picture.” Tony passed it over. “You should keep it here.”
“Why?”
“This was his shop.” Nodding at the photograph. “In that, he looks like the quintessential antiques dealer at work.”
“That’s what he was,” Jordan said, and click, there was another idea. Slowly, she smiled.
“Jor?” Garrett sounded puzzled.
“Miss McBride?” Tony cocked his head. “I like making a girl smile, but normally I’ve got some idea why.”
If they hadn’t had a counter between them, Jordan would have hugged him. She beamed instead, yanking her black straw hat off the stand and clapping it down over her hair. “Tony,” she said, forgetting the Mr. Rodomovsky, “thank you. Twice!”
“ANNA, I’VE JUST HAD the best idea—” Jordan stopped, coming out onto the tiny balcony where her stepmother stood looking out at the street. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I used to like a cigarette before dinner.” Anneliese took a drag, tilting her face up to the long summer twilight. She still wore the black suit she’d donned to visit the lawyer, but her pumps sat on the deck beside her handbag. “You know how your father felt about women who smoked, so I stopped. Would you like one?”
“Sure.”
Anneliese took out a silver case and lit a fresh cigarette from her own. “Where is Ruth?”
“Playing with Taro upstairs. Garrett just dropped us off—he came to take us to the movies, but nothing was playing.” Jordan inhaled smoke, coming to lean on the balcony railing. “I had an idea today, something Tony said. Let’s get Ruth violin lessons.”
For a moment Anneliese looked almost shocked. “Why?”
“She can’t look at a violin without being mesmerized. It would make her so happy.”
“A child who shrieks and lashes out doesn’t need more indulging, she needs discipline. We’ve been too lax with Ruth.”
“She’s not spoiled,” Jordan protested. “She’s sad and angry, and she misses Dad. Why not try something different, something to remind her she can be happy?”
“Not the violin, though.” Anneliese took another drag. “Whatever those memories of her mother are, they aren’t pleasant. I don’t want her even more stirred up. Better if she forgets about violins altogether.”
“If she doesn’t like it, we’d stop the lessons. But—”
“No, Jordan. I don’t want her remembering more.” Anneliese smiled, as if to apologize for her refusal. “Besides, it’s a rather Jewish thing, isn’t it, being obsessed with music? One of their nicer qualities, of course, they make fine musicians. But we don’t want Ruth tarred with that brush. With a name like Ruth Weber she was undoubtedly Jewish. Thank goodness at least she doesn’t have the looks.”
“Anna, really!” Jordan exclaimed. “Every other little girl in Boston has piano lessons, music is hardly a Jewish thing. And even if it was—”
“Everyone sympathized with the Jews after the war, but that doesn’t mean anyone wants to live next door to them. I don’t want that for Ruth.” Anneliese moved on, clearly done with the subject. “There’s something else I should tell you, Jordan. You know I saw the lawyer today about your father’s will. All in order—the shop to me for my lifetime or until I remarry, then to you and Ruth jointly.”
“Yes.” Her father’s voice: I wanted to make it into something special for you. A real future . . . “What did you want to tell me?”
“That you don’t have to want it.”
Jordan looked up, startled. “What?”
“Fathers want to build something they can leave to their children. Sometimes they don’t stop and think if what they’ve built is anything their children want to be saddled with.” Anneliese’s blue eyes were steady, sympathetic. “You’ve been such a dutiful daughter, working at that shop—but I know you never wanted it. You should have gone to college instead. I advocated for that, but your father didn’t favor the idea, as you know. It wasn’t right to contradict my husband, so I let the matter drop. But I thought he was wrong. I still do.”
“He wasn’t wrong,” Jordan said, defensive. “I didn’t need college. I had a future already, I had Garrett, I had . . .”
Anneliese waited for her to name everything else she already had. When Jordan trailed off, she went on. “I’ll keep up the shop as your father would have wanted, don’t fear. An income for me, an inheritance someday for you and Ruth.” Lighting another cigarette. “But that doesn’t mean it should burden you now, Jordan. You don’t want to be stuck behind a counter selling apostle spoons to old ladies—I know you don’t. What would you rather do?”
“I’m marrying Garrett in the spring.” It came out of Jordan automatically.
Anneliese smiled. Jordan felt herself blushing.
“What about college?” Anneliese went on, gently ignoring both marriage and Garrett. “You could try for Radcliffe or Boston University, but I think a young woman benefits from leaving her hometown. You could go all the way to California, if it took your fantasy. A new school, a new state.”
College. Jordan thought how much she’d wanted that at seventeen. “I don’t . . . think I want that anymore,” she said slowly. “I’m twenty-two. Starting next to all those eighteen-year-old girls, half of whom are just there to get engaged . . .”
Anneliese didn’t look surprised. “You could go to New York, then. Get a job you enjoy, not a job you think you should enjoy.”
Jordan felt her hands clench around the balcony rail. Was this conversation happening? Was it really happening?