Sold on a Monday: A Novel
Sold on a Monday: Part 1 – Chapter 12

The March morning sky filled Lily’s window with an ominous gray, fitting for her rising angst. Two floors sat atop her parents’ deli, with living quarters in the middle and both bedrooms on the third. Today, in her childhood room, even the familiar scents of pastrami and bread drifting through the vents brought little comfort. Nor did the sight of Samuel on the floor, drawing pictures of rockets and rabbits and family. If anything, his presence was compounding the issue.

“Mommy, look it!”

Lily twisted on her vanity stool, where she sat in her slip and robe, begrudgingly preparing for the day ahead. He was holding up another masterpiece, this one of the deli flanked by trees sprouting spring leaves. “Oh, baby, it’s marvelous.”

His toothy grin widened, his pale-green eyes and round face aglow. “I’m gonna show Gamma.” He jumped up and rushed out of the room. His footsteps pattered down the hall and faded down the stairs.

While not the primary source of Lily’s troubles, the fact that tonight would mark her first Saturday spent away from her son was hardly trivial. Already she spent so much time without him, mulling over what-ifs.

That wasn’t to say she was immune to feeling silly over her worrying—like back in October, when she and Clayton arrived to replace Samuel’s fever subsided. To his credit, Clayton had expressed only delight, unfazed even by her son’s refusal to engage with a stranger. Then again, her mother had dominated all, including her father’s skeptical looks, while ushering Clayton inside for supper, her enthusiasm as clear as her will.

Hailing from a long line of bakers, Harriet Palmer was deceptively strong for her short form, topped by reddish-brown locks styled with nightly curlers. Together with her husband, the couple resembled the light and doughy rolls she baked every dawn, with the sweet demeanors to match.

Well, if one didn’t count the expletives from Lily’s father during radio broadcasts of Yankees games, which earned him routine visits to the confessional, or the piercing glares her mother reserved for opposition to matters she valued.

Clayton might have sensed the latter from the start, as he didn’t hesitate in agreeing to stay for a meal. A month later, he accepted just as easily after driving Lily again on a Friday after work. It was a stop on his way to chasing down a lead, he claimed. Whether true or not, Lily couldn’t resist saving herself an hour of travel time, for it meant seeing her darling Samuel run to her that much sooner. It meant another hour of his lively chatter and heartwarming giggles.

So it went, ashamedly with little protest on Lily’s part—the benefits far outweighing any message she might be sending—until the drives to Maryville in Clayton’s Chevy Coupe, followed by a family supper, became a regular occurrence unless a big story pulled him away.

By late winter, her lone bus rides to and from the city came to feel much longer for lack of conversation. She didn’t always agree with Clayton’s opinions. His stances, often to a maddening degree, were as black and white as the clippings of his articles. But as a seasoned reporter, on the crime beat at that, he had no shortage of intriguing tales or skillful questions—for Lily’s parents, in particular—to prevent awkward lulls.

Over time, her father’s defenses wholly thawed. It didn’t hurt that Clayton was also Catholic and, though with German roots, “three generations American.” He was swift to point this out, as if to sidestep any resentment related to the Great War. Not that anything could deter Lily’s parents by then—or Samuel, who had grown equally comfortable from regular visits.

Besides, what wasn’t there to like? Clayton Brauer had a respectful yet confident bearing and an upstanding career, key elements of a fine suitor. Most important, he showed no averseness to courting an unwed mother.

And yet, spring had arrived before Lily was forced to confront the standing of their relationship.

She had just walked Clayton to his car, parked in the crisp darkness outside the deli. Despite being aware she shouldn’t bother, she scanned the town’s main street for gossipy onlookers and found relief in the evening stillness. She thanked Clayton profusely, as she always did before his return to Philly. He replied by peering down into her eyes, and she recognized his intent before he leaned toward her. Given the ease that had developed between them, such an encounter was surely due. But once his lips pressed to hers, she reflexively drew away, an act that immediately smacked her with guilt.

“Clayton, I’m so sorry. I know you’ve been patient…”

A corner of his mouth lifted, and his thumb gently brushed her chin. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

An expert at his craft, he had once again addressed her concerns in just a few words: that she could take all the time she needed, that he was a man she could count on.

He then climbed into his car but stopped short of closing the door. “There’s an old pal I grew up with in Chicago—works at the Sun now. He’s getting married next weekend at the Waldorf in Manhattan. If you’re up for it, I’d sure love if you came along.”

In the silence that followed, she realized she hadn’t responded. She shook her head at herself and laughed. “Gosh, of course. I’d love to go.”

He sent her another smile before starting the engine and driving away. Only then did it dawn on her that the wedding would interrupt her weekend routine. She considered changing her answer, though after their exchange that evening, paired with his ongoing generosity, how could she possibly?

Pondering this, she had ascended the staircase behind the deli counter. Up in the sitting room, her mother was knitting in her rocking chair by lamplight. The floral curtain on the window hung conspicuously open. Lily was in no mood to surmise what her mother had witnessed.

“Good night,” Lily said quickly. She turned for the upper stairs, eagerly retreating toward the room she shared with Samuel. How she yearned for the peaceful sound of his rhythmic breaths.

“Dear, wait.”

With great reluctance, Lily pivoted back. Her mother rested her knitting needles on the lap of her long skirt, an admonition in her sigh. “Lily, you mustn’t forget. A man like Clayton doesn’t happen along every day.”

Here it came, an inevitable lecture on the horrors of permanent spinsterhood. Lily was suppressing a groan when her mother added, “You need to think of Samuel.”

Lily just stared. How many times had she been told that she fussed too much over her son? True, in the beginning she had feared he would suffer from the void of an absent father. But no longer. He had a family who adored him. There was no denying that Samuel’s life, while unconventional, was blessed more than many.

Before these thoughts could form words, however, her mother held up her hand, a command to let her finish. “But you also need to think about you. Your father and I won’t be around forever, and we simply dread the idea of you being alone.” The heaviness and care in her voice were mirrored in her downturned eyes.

A parent’s protectiveness, it seemed, was a beloved burden with no end.

Defenses lowering, Lily attempted to comfort her. “I appreciate your worry, but I’m not alone. I have our family. I have Samuel.”

“And when he grows up? What then?”

He was so small and young, still so dependent. It shook Lily to imagine him off on his own adventures, perhaps half a world away.

“Mother, truly. I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, yes. You’ll be fine,” she said. “But will you be happy?”

• •

The question had stalked Lily ever since. Even now, it loomed in every inch of her and Samuel’s room, from the toy chest in the corner to their pair of narrow, quilt-laden beds. One of which would someday remain empty.

Shutting out the thought, she completed her french twist and applied red lipstick, preparing for her train to New York Pennsylvania Station, where Clayton would be waiting. So as not to encroach on her savings, he had arranged for her ticket and overnight stay at a place suitable for a lone female traveler. When Clayton made plans, he left little to chance.

At the closet, Lily stepped into her T-strap heels and fastened the gold buttons of her silken dress. With its jade hue and sweetheart neckline, the garment was her only one elegant enough for a highbrow affair. She added her tweed coat and pinned on her green brimmed hat, each article bringing her closer to departure.

Just inside the entrance of the deli, she tucked her ivory gloves into her travel bag and knelt before Samuel. A smattering of customers blurred into the background. Lily forced a smile as she straightened the collar of her son’s shirt, the misaligned buttons proof of having staunchly fastened them himself. “Now, be a good boy while I’m away. Promise?”

He nodded with such surety, growing ever more accustomed to making do without her. A pinch flared deep in her chest. But then he threw his arms around her neck and said, “I love you, Mommy.”

“Oh, Samuel. I love you more.” She savored the feel of his fine hair, auburn like hers, brushing against her cheek. He smelled of lavender soap and boyish sweat and bananas from his oatmeal. Tears pricking her eyes, she reminded herself that she would be gone for just a night. Tomorrow, an early train would loop her back to Maryville, where she would spend the afternoon with her son before catching the bus to Philly. Her mother thought it foolish not to travel directly back with Clayton, but Lily disagreed.

“Well then. I’d best be off.” She kissed Samuel’s sticky, dimpled cheek and broke out of his hug before she could reassess her plans.

On cue, Lily’s father hollered from behind the counter, “Hey, Sammy! How about a gingersnap?”

Samuel scurried toward the cookie, a reliable distraction.

“Goodbye, sugar bug,” Lily whispered. Travel bag in hand, she sent her father a grateful smile and slipped out the door.

Sugar bug. The origin of the nickname passed through her mind as she bused to the train depot. Years ago, on endless nights of colicky wailing, a dab of sugar on Samuel’s tongue had delivered moments of reprieve until he wore himself out, along with Lily. And now part of her yearned for those bittersweet days. He would be turning five in June. It was all going too fast.

You need to think of Samuel, her mother had said. Once Lily was settled into her train car, she reevaluated the words. History had taught her to be wary when it came to men, including her own judgment in their regard. With Samuel to think of now, the stakes had never been higher.

The more she deliberated, weighing the idea of a future with Clayton, the clearer her path became. She rubbed her locket like a worry stone, a cherished picture of her son inside. By the time the train passed Trenton, her decision was made.

Still, to prevent wavering, she focused on the book she had packed. Ten Days in a Mad-House. It was Nellie Bly’s firsthand report of committing herself to an asylum for a shocking exposé. Lily had read the account so many times one could easily question her own sanity. Rationale, perhaps, for what she was about to do.

After the reception, Clayton would escort her back to her hotel, and before parting ways, she would bring to an end what she never should have started.

• • •

The ceremony—aside from the stained glass, marble columns, and vaulted ceilings at St. Patrick’s Cathedral—was fairly standard as marital masses went. It was the reception that boasted all the extravagance of New York high society. In the Waldorf Astoria, the grand ballroom swirled with a sea of tuxedos and formal gowns, of colognes and perfumes and haze from expensive tobacco. Conversations and laughter competed with the strings of an unseen quartet.

Save for the pretension, Lily couldn’t refute it was an impressive affair. Six-arm candelabras flickered at the center of each round table. Spread over pressed white linens were identical displays of gold serving ware, crimson petals, and perfectly folded napkins. Gloved waiters served crystal flutes of champagne—the presence of two congressmen, as Clayton pointed out, apparently precluding the event from any legal hassles.

“May I?” Clayton slid Lily’s chair out for her. By candlelight, in his white jacket and black bow tie, his hair slicked with pomade, he looked undeniably dashing.

She smiled politely and took her seat, joining the table of his New York press friends and their wives. With Clayton at her side, it occurred to her just how much like a couple they appeared, putting her ill at ease.

She welcomed the diversion of the bride’s father giving a formal toast with a dose of wit, apt for an oil tycoon. He made only one playful jab about his son-in-law marrying up. Then the men at Lily’s table plunged into their journalistic gabbing. Between drags on their cigarettes, they lobbed tales of wrathful editors, newsroom politics, and off-the-record scandals. They described run-ins with the infamous William Hearst and ribbed one another about which of their papers deserved the top spot.

Their wives also shared a common history, made clear by their gossip and updates on mutual friends. When the topic of their children finally emerged, Lily perked up at the chance to contribute. But then she recalled how any mention of Samuel would require an awkward explanation. Thus, she continued to nibble on her quail and sip her champagne, feigning intrigue over the words curling around her.

Not until later, as she rose to excuse herself to the powder room, did she feel the full effects of her drink, magnified by the warmth of the ballroom. Rarely one to indulge, she lingered in private to collect her bearings and remembered the ultimate mission of her evening.

Various women passed behind her as she stood before an ornate oval mirror. Once steadied by a few deep breaths, she started back for the reception. At the ballroom entrance awaited Clayton, their overcoats draping his arm.

“There you are.” His tone was more anxious than relieved.

She sifted through her muddled thoughts, wondering just how long she had been in the ladies’ room. “Are we leaving?”

“There’s been a robbery. It’s a jewelry store off Times Square. A fatal shooting, maybe. Might even be Willie Sutton, escaped from the pen. That’s the word we just got.” He motioned to other newsmen collecting their belongings from the coat-check girls. When Lily was slow to react, he added, “Of course…if you want to stay, we can.”

The distracted thrill in his eyes said he was already there, on the scene, formulating a story. Although she knew this was his job, his eagerness to race toward a dead body as if it weren’t a real person who’d be mourned by loved ones made her cringe inside.

“No, that’s fine,” she said. “I have an early train. I should be calling it a night anyway.”

“Ah, good. Then I’ll just take you to your hotel first.”

Her hotel—the location for a talk that obviously would have to wait.

He held her coat open for her. As she slid her arms in, she realized she still needed her purse. Had she left it in the lavatory? Or was it under her chair? Or perhaps…

“Lily?” Clayton was yards away when he discovered she hadn’t followed. He returned with the impatience of a track star summoned back for a false start.

She dreaded to announce, “I still need to grab my handbag.”

Now he looked as if his race had been canceled.

“You should go on. I can walk myself back.”

He scanned her face. “Are you sure? Because I can wait.” His willingness was there, despite his body already angling toward the exit.

“And miss the scoop? The chief would throw a fit. Really, you go. My hotel’s only two blocks away.”

He nodded with relief and smiled. “All right. You travel safely.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek before hustling toward his friends already on their way out.

Suddenly it came to her: she had stored her valuables under her chair.

She didn’t waste a second before weaving her way through the ballroom to reach her now-vacant table. There was her purse, just as suspected. Right then, someone repeatedly clinked a glass to quiet the guests, and the quartet halted within a measure.

Out of courtesy, Lily reclaimed her seat to wait out the toast. At the front of the room, the groom presented a speech directly to his bride, who stood daintily beside him. She blushed in a white gown that far surpassed the elegance of a typical wedding suit.

Lily didn’t catch half of his words. She was far more captivated by the adoration in his voice, its raw vulnerability. He was surrendering not only his heart but his entire self. And his bride was no less willing, based on the connection of their gaze, so intimate that at one point Lily felt intrusive for watching.

Then the couple engaged in a kiss, publicly appropriate yet wholly tender, triggering an unexpected feeling in Lily. A romantic longing she had nearly forgotten existed, an ancient magnet pulling at her heart.

The room of guests applauded, the quartet resumed its playing, and champagne continued to flow.

Lily opened her handbag. Withdrawing her gloves, she revealed the envelope inside. It held a letter for Ellis Reed, regarding the children from his first feature. Forwarding address: New York Herald Tribune. She had planned to swing by the post office at Penn Station before boarding her morning train. It would be more efficient, she had concluded, to mail it in New York.

But now she had to wonder. Had there been another reason for bringing the missive along? She thought of her last discussion with Ellis, back at the Examiner, the unspoken trust, their faces mere inches apart. Once again she considered the words they had never shared. The misunderstanding, the cool parting. Perhaps her traveling here had been part of a greater purpose, one she had known unconsciously yet avoided seeing.

To deliver the letter in person.