He tipped it to the light. “Ten carat, no more.”
Violet didn’t budge.
“Wait here.” A minute or two later he returned with something sturdy but unremarkable, the kind of straw bonnet every miner’s wife in Scranton owned.
Violet tried it on. Her face fell.
“Best I can do,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He offered the medallion back to her. “Just as well. A person should hold onto something this special.”
Violet shook her head at the coin and handed the straw hat over to the shop owner. “This one will have to do. Box it for me, please.” She walked to the front of the store, took a seat in a straight-backed chair, and waited.
Several minutes later, Mr. Widenor returned from the back room with a bright red hatbox, exclusive to his store. “I tied it good and tight,” he said, handing it over. “With a sister like you, she’s a lucky girl. God bless, miss.”
Violet forced a smile and a “Thank you,” but they didn’t match up. She threaded her fingers through the string and headed for the door.
As soon as her foot crossed the threshold, a nearby mill whistled its workers back from lunch. It was a familiar sound. The Lace Works, a factory in the Providence neighborhood of Scranton, used the same method. On weekdays, Lace Works employees and schoolchildren within earshot eagerly awaited the first whistle, a signal for lunch. An hour later, the whistle would sound again, urging everyone back to their duties.
Since Violet had left the asylum at half past twelve, she knew that must have been the one o’clock whistle. She was surprised at how quickly she’d managed her errand. The suitcases must have slowed her the last time she’d walked these streets. No one expected her back before two o’clock, so she decided to savor her solitude. Violet settled herself on a nearby bench to watch the bustle of the large city. For the first time in the two weeks since her arrival, she noticed the gray air. The smoke, expelled from countless trains and automobiles, hung in front of her like gossamer curtains. Pedestrians hurried through the haze, eyes downcast, coats drawn up toward their faces. Tracks cut through the middle of the street, where fast-moving cars and crowded trolleys shared the road. Across the way, arched windows and Gothic spires graced the massive train station.
Violet wondered if she could ever make a life in such a place. One of Stanley’s letters had suggested getting married in Philadelphia. What if he decided to move them here? She found the anonymity of a big city inviting. If she were sitting alone on a bench in Scranton, half the congregation of the Providence Christian Church would know about it, and what’s more, have shared their opinions on it before she ever made it back to her own front porch. And a predicament like Lily’s wouldn’t be tolerated back home, though Violet hoped never to be compromised by such troubles again.
Yet, there was also comfort to be had in a place like Scranton. Last winter, when Mr. Harris was laid up with the gout, the men on Spring Street took turns cleaning the ashes out of his furnace and spreading them on the icy sidewalks. And when Susie Hopkins lost her husband in that mine fire, the ladies of Providence stepped in, providing enough staples and canned goods to feed Susie and her three children through the winter.
A sudden gust of March air stirred the dust, and Violet’s hands flew to her eyes. An instant later, when the wind subsided, she saw the red hatbox tumbling toward the trolley tracks. Without thinking, she ran into the street and snatched Lily’s present just as a streetcar approached. Violet looked up, and for a moment time faltered, unable or unwilling to move along.
Stanley stood in the middle of the overcrowded trolley, gripping a leather handhold, facing the motorman up front. Reason demanded that Violet run away, but Stanley’s sudden presence pinned her in place. She studied his profile, his lips, his nose, and found solace in the familiar. It was as if she’d been in foreign lands for untold years and awakened one day to the sound of her native tongue. She was home.
Time lurched forward. Violet’s fingers started throbbing from the too-tight string on the hatbox. The hat. Lily!
She lingered another second, not long at all, yet long enough for Stanley to turn and glance out the window as the streetcar passed by her. Uncertainty seemed to tug at the corners of his eyes as he yelled, “Stop!” either to her or the conductor.
Fear propelled Violet in the opposite direction, away from the trolley, away from the man she loved.
Chapter eight
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL DAY?” Lily asked when Violet walked into the dining room for supper. “With that baby, I suppose. I’ll never understand why you care more about that stray than you do your own sister.”
“Not now,” Violet whispered. She took the empty seat on Lily’s right and bowed her head just as Sister Immaculata started the blessing.
Lily waited, open-eyed, for the moment when the Catholics would start crossing themselves, her signal that the prayer was almost over.
“In the name of the Father . . .”
All of the women except for the Morgan girls lifted their right hands to their foreheads.
“Do you even know what today is?” Lily couldn’t contain herself.
Violet tipped her bowed head in her sister’s direction, opened one eye, and glared. “Amen.”
Sister Immaculata gave a nod, and napkins snapped open, some spread across laps and bellies, others tucked under chins. Ladles clanked against pressed-glass tureens as a hearty stew made its way around four long tables. Lily wrinkled up her nose as Violet filled their bowls.
“This doesn’t look anything like Mother’s.” Lily poked at chunks of gray meat swimming among the potatoes and carrots in the thick brown broth.
“That’s because it’s mutton,” Violet said, “not beef. Now be grateful. Plenty of mouths are going unfed tonight.” She took two pieces of hard-crusted bread and handed the plate past Lily to the woman seated on her left. “Here,” she said to her sister, tearing one of the slices into small chunks and scattering them in her bowl.
“Mother always makes dumplings,” Lily said, stirring the bread pieces to soak up the gravy.
Violet lifted her spoon to her mouth and held it there. “Mother rarely makes anything,” she mumbled, “and certainly not dumplings.” She licked the spoon clean and set it alongside her bowl. “And if it’s dumplings you like, you have me to thank.” She picked up her slice of bread and pointed it at her sister. “And while you’re at it,” her was tone slightly elevated, but controlled, “you can thank me for ironing your dresses, plaiting your hair, teaching you how to skate . . .” She paused, the bread still aloft, thumbing through her mind’s catalog. Getting Lily’s breakfast. Reading her stories. Tucking her into bed. “And checking your sums every night,” she blurted out, as if she hadn’t thought about that one for a long time, “the year you had Miss Philips in grammar school!” Violet closed her eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply. She took her spoon and pushed it around in the bowl. “Onions are cooked down,” she finally said, “the way you like.”
Without looking up, Lily leaned toward the stew and started eating. “First Muriel leaves me.” She reached for the saltcellar near the tip of her knife, threw
