“Oh, honey, I’m so glad you’re happy,” Mrs. Moore said. “You look like a film star. I’ll drive you home. We’ll be able to knock your mother over with a feather when she sees you.”
Mrs. Richardson blinked away tears. “You are my finest work yet, dear. But before you go anywhere, let me put on the final touch.”
She hurried away, rummaged through a cabinet in the back of the shop, and returned holding out a small gold tube. “You must wear lipstick. This cherry red will be perfect. Now pout for me.”
Helen raised her eyebrows at Mrs. Moore, who nodded, urging her on. Helen pouted her lips as Mrs. Richardson traced the lipstick over them.
“Now look,” she said, handing Helen a blotting paper and miming how to use it. “Doesn’t that shade look marvelous?”
Two other women having their hair done had wandered over to take in the spectacle. “She’s a vision,” one cooed.
Mrs. Richardson stepped back, crossed her arms, tilted her head, and appraised her handiwork. “Good,” she announced, nodding. “But if you ever want to do something about your brows, stop by and I can help.”
“My eyebrows?” Helen asked, frowning at herself in the mirror.
“I think she’s had enough change for one day,” Mrs. Moore said, helping Helen shuffle out of the shop in her new pumps. “See you ladies at the parade on Monday.”
On the drive back to the Stephens farm, Mrs. Moore told Helen all about the reporters who had swarmed their house that morning, even trampling the tulips lining the sides of the walk. Helen half listened, running her fingers along the soft fabric of her dress. She’d never owned something so silky before. She then twisted her ankles this way and that, so she could admire the heels and the sophistication they gave her long legs. It had barely been twenty-four hours since she had run the race and already her life felt transformed.
Once home, Helen found Ma perched on a chair in the front parlor talking to a man. At the sight of Helen, both sprang to their feet. Helen took a few unsteady steps forward, conscious of the smart click of her heels on the floor.
“This here is Dwayne Goodwin from The St. Louis Register,” Ma said.
The man shoved his hand out and took Helen’s. “Your mama was gracious enough to offer an appointment with you later today, but I said, ‘No, ma’am, no chance my editor is going to let that fly,’ so I’ve been sitting here waiting for you.”
As he spoke, Helen couldn’t lift her gaze from the sight of her own hand in his. She couldn’t quite believe those glamorous fingernails clasped in his ink-stained hand were hers. “Well, here I am. What can I do for you?”
“I caught up with Stella Walsh last night to ask her for her reaction and she said your win was a fluke and she doesn’t think you can beat her again. Now, what do you make of that?”
“I think she better use a dictionary to look up what fluke means. Can you take a picture of my face so she can get a good long look at it in your newspaper? ’Cause she’s not going to see it again in a long time. When we’re on the track, all she’ll see is my backside.” Helen watched the reporter’s face split open with delight as he scribbled down her remarks in his notebook. Seeing that he was getting a kick out of her, she added, “I also hope she likes the taste of cinder because she’s going to be eating it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if she chases after me.”
“Woo-whee, our readers are going to love this. When do you two plan to face off again?”
“I’m ready any time. She can name the day.”
“Terrific,” said the reporter, tipping the brim of his cap at her and making his way to the door.
“You know where to find me for more,” Helen said, watching as the man pushed his way out the door.
After he had left, Ma wagged her finger at Helen. “No more of that, you hear? I won’t have my daughter sounding so boastful.”
Helen gave a sheepish glance at Mrs. Moore. The night before, when she had said, “Stella who?” to the reporters, Coach Moore had whisked her away from the crowd.
“Helen, if we’re to continue working together, you must be an honorable sportswoman at all times. I will not tolerate any incivilities,” he’d said.
“To be fair, they threw me off with her real name. You know, the Polish version?”
He had folded his arms and given her a long look.
“Sorry, Coach,” she had mumbled, chastened, but apparently it hadn’t been enough because here she was getting a rise out of a reporter again. She couldn’t help herself!
Helen took in the scandalized expressions of Ma and Mrs. Moore. “Everyone likes a little gamesmanship. And anyway, Stella started it by calling my win a fluke, so what was I supposed to say?”
Mrs. Moore appeared to be hiding a smile behind her hand, but Ma harrumphed, then pointed to two dresses hanging over a kitchen chair. “I’ve made progress. You should try them on, but be careful because the bodice seams are only basted so I could be sure they fit you before I sewed them in earnest.”
Helen lifted the dresses from the chair.
“And Mr. Draper stopped by earlier with this beautiful coat. He wants you to know that Draper’s Dry Goods would love you to stop by and visit,” Ma said in an amazed voice. She lifted the fawn-colored wool coat from a shopping bag and handed it to Helen.
“I’ve never had a store-bought coat,” Helen said, holding it out in front of her as though it were something breakable.
“Try it on,” Mrs. Moore urged.
Helen slid her arm into one of the sleeves, sighing as her hand brushed along the satin lining. Easing it along her shoulders, she slid her other arm into it and pulled its
