Nannie slipped Betty’s dress from its wooden hanger and held it by the shoulder straps. Each strap was topped with a blue satin ribbon tied in a bow that matched the skirt’s powder-blue overlay.
Betty stepped out of her blue gym uniform she sometimes wore for calisthenics. It fell around her feet. Nannie handed the dress to Doris, who held it open wide on the floor, so Betty could step in. She held out her arms, and the girls lifted the dress up over her torso and onto her arms, quite like the blue birds in Cinderella, although that would make Nannie one of the mice. Doris zipped up the back and fastened the matching belt in front.
“It fits like a glove,” Georgia said.
Nannie removed a pin from her pincushion and pulled at the fabric at Betty’s waist. “Almost.”
“Gloves!” Betty tugged away from Nannie and skittered to her dresser. She opened the top drawer and lifted out a slim gold cardboard box, unwrapped a pair of white gloves from protective paper, and pulled one onto each hand. “They’re practically new.” Betty stopped moving, as if in a game of freeze tag. She looked at Nannie, who nodded.
“You can never go wrong wearing white gloves,” she said. “Now come here and let me finish so we can all get back to work. No time for dawdling.”
Following her grandmother’s instructions, Betty stood at attention as Nannie kneeled, then pulled and folded and pinned the hem.
“I think it’s a little loose at the chest,” Betty said.
“You can win without showing too much.”
Doris nodded, but Georgia covered her mouth, knowing Betty’s plan had been foiled.
Then Georgia glanced at her watch again. “I have to go.”
“Where?” Betty asked.
“Timbuktu,” Georgia said. “Where do you think? I have a tennis lesson. Every guest deserves special attention.”
“Who’s this star student?” Doris asked.
“Not a star, Sam—Mr.—Bloomfield. He wants to be able to hit tennis balls with his daughters, so he’s doubling up on lessons on weekends.”
Nannie removed a straight pin from between her lips. “Good for him, Georgia. And that’s because of you. The Bloomfields are lucky to have you.”
Georgia blushed. “Thank you. See you later, girls?”
“Of course!” Betty and Doris said in unison.
“Doris, would you help Betty take off the dress without sticking herself? And then just leave it on the bed.” Betty held Nannie’s arm and helped her grandmother stand. “Georgia, dear, I’ll walk back with you. Ira’s got to be wondering where I am, and it’s almost time to check in on the kitchen.” She brushed off her dark-blue shirtwaist.
Georgia stepped aside and allowed Nannie to walk out the door and down the stairs first.
As they disappeared from view, Betty clutched Doris’s arms. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course. But take off the dress first.”
She stepped gingerly from her pinned frock. In her slip and brassiere, Betty sat at the edge of her bed near but not on top of the dress. She wrung her hands in her lap.
“What’s got you all wound up?”
“My grandparents aren’t going to be happy about this.”
“You’re killing me, Betty. Spit it out.”
“I’ve been thinking about my parents. I may invite them to the pageant.”
“What would your grandparents say?”
“They’re always happy to see Joe, but I thought I wouldn’t mention it. In case they say no, which they probably will. I could just write them. Then no one would have to know. What do you think I should do?”
“Does that really matter?”
It didn’t, but Betty appreciated that Doris allowed her to babble. If her parents agreed to come, Tillie and Joe could see her as the woman she’d become. They might even like Abe, and to get on Betty’s good side they might help convince Nannie and Zaide that half-Jewish was enough—even if they believed it was the wrong half. Even if she didn’t get their help with Abe, they’d still see her triumphing onstage before she headed off to New York to pursue her own dream, the way they had pursued theirs. The difference being, she wasn’t abandoning a child to do it.
Over the next weeks, Betty’s days became predictable yet dazzling. Abe could be around any corner—and he often was. Yet her work in the laundry room provided a short reprieve, and while she missed the rush of anticipation, the rhythm of the machines soothed Betty, reminding her of her origin. The machines thudded, whirled, and buzzed, and none of the laundry girls paid mind to Betty. She liked her hours here. This was where Betty knew what was expected of her and she didn’t have to be poised or coiffed or even polite. One day she’d heard the girls swearing aloud, not caring one iota that she was nearby. It was as if Betty weren’t their bosses’ granddaughter. Since Betty’s summer life existed in the spotlight and was governed by propriety, she loved standing a little bit slouched, leaning while she worked, wiping sweat with the back of her hand in lieu of a handkerchief. She had wanted to tell her grandparents how much she cared for Abe, but it never seemed to be the right time for that conversation—that argument. She’d promised she wouldn’t “go overboard” but overboard she had gone. Headfirst, as if she’d ducked beneath a wind-forced wave.
Betty poured bleach and Cheer into the washing machine before adding the morning’s white cotton napkins and tablecloths.
Francine fed a folded flat sheet through the decade-old rotary ironing machine, then she looked up. “How’s your fella? That handsome waiter. Abe, isn’t it?”
Betty wanted to say Abe was wonderful, caring, gentle, and loving, but didn’t want to be a braggart. Or come off as smitten and silly. “He’s swell, thanks for asking.”
“Some girls have all the luck,” Francine muttered.
Was it luck she was feeling? The upwelling that compelled Betty to skip instead of walk, hum lively tunes, daydream through hours? No, that wasn’t luck; that was love.
Mabel barreled into the laundry room, apron covered in the morning’s flour and butter stains. “Your grandmother wants to see you
