The Pieces We Keep(9)

The implication of being paid to tickle and massage British toes would verge on amusing if not for the added point: How do you expect to find a good husband this way? I did not raise my only child to become a spinster. Her inflection conveyed a fatal disease, as though her own marriage encapsulated sheer bliss.

Vivian knew better.

She had also known, when offered the job at the store, to bypass her mother in favor of her father. Perpetually distracted, he had mumbled his consent. In doing so, he had spared her from torturous hours of knitting and playing bridge with her mother’s gossipy socialites. And most important, Vivian’s personal savings had continued to flourish. Stashed in an old coffee tin since early girlhood, each dollar and pound was a step toward her dream. Traveling. Self-reliance. Freedom.

That wasn’t to say she opposed marriage entirely-only the dreary, passionless type. She refused to be a caged and clipped housewife, with love deemed an afterthought. She would rather be alone forever than deprived of her independence.

Focusing on that divine word, she approached the storeroom’s mustard-colored curtains. Split down the middle, they draped to the ancient wooden floor. The scents of leather and black polish welcomed her entry. A single bulb threw dim light over the ceiling-high shelves.

She set aside the mistaken pair and scanned the array of choices, grouped by color and size. What a poor habit she had made today of placing shoes in the wrong slots. All because of foolishness over a boy.

At last, she spotted the chocolate-brown peep toes. They were up on a high shelf, but retrievable without the rickety stepstool. She rose onto the balls of her feet, stretching her arm. In her haste, her fingertips pushed the shoes away. She needed to concentrate, to be patient, if she wanted her life to improve, much less her workday.

“I can get those for you,” came the voice.

Her muscles petrified, rigid as stone.

Isaak.

For a second that seemed an hour, he reached over her from behind. Her head grew faint from the faded aroma of cigar on his clothes. His chest pressed against her shoulder blades. The warmth of his skin seeped through her flimsy cotton blouse, the drape of her skirt.

“There you go,” he said. That maddening rasp.

She fended off a shudder, and realized her eyes had closed. Opening them, she swung around and backed away, imprisoned by stacks of shelves. He peered at her from beneath the plaid bill of his flat cap. His black jacket hung unzipped.

How had he managed to sneak in here?

Before she could ask, he motioned toward the curtain. “Door was open from the alley.”

The side door was used for supply deliveries. And apparently, stray tomcats. “How fitting.”

“Vivian?” Mr. Harrington called out.

The customer.

The shoes.

She swiped them from Isaak. They were larger than requested, but she would present them regardless. It was silly, she had learned, to pretend something fit when it didn’t.

“One minute, sir,” she replied, then cut to Isaak in a hush. “You have to go.”

She attempted to stride past him, but his arm shot to the side. “You owe me an explanation.”

“I don’t owe you a thing. Now, let me pass, or-or I’ll have Mr. Harrington escort you out.”

Isaak drew his head back, emitting the same edge of mischief that had first lured her in. “Even though you’d left the back door unlocked for me? So we could mingle here in the closet?”

“I did no such-” She caught her raised volume. Was he trying to get her fired? “He’ll never believe you.”

Isaak folded his arms and leaned against the doorway, a bald dare.

At his outright arrogance, blood sped through her veins, spiking her temperature. “I can’t do this now.”

“And why is that?”

Didn’t he see she was at work? Or was it that he viewed a woman’s occupation as a piddly hobby?

“If you must know, I have inventory to take, supplies to stock, and a customer who, despite her toes being overstuffed sausages, is convinced she wears the same size as the Queen. Therefore, as I said, now is not a good time.” She pinned him with a glare, pressing him to relent.

Neither of them budged.

Finally he said, “A simple explanation. Please, Vivian. Give me that and I’ll leave you alone.” His tone suddenly shifted, tender as the memory of his hand on her skin, of his lips trailing the side of her neck.

She swatted away the thought, battled back with the truth-at least in basic form.

“Fine, I’ll tell you,” she said, at which he nodded. “I’m tired of being hidden away like something to be ashamed of. If Mr. Mueller is such a kind benefactor, he shouldn’t take issue with our relationship. Either way, I don’t see the point of sneaking around anymore.” She tried to leave it at that but added, “Unless you’re afraid a woman who you’re truly smitten with might spot us together.”