Astor Place Vintage: A Novel Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  ASTOR PLACE VINTAGE

  “This utterly engrossing novel gives us a portrait of one of the most fascinating cities in the world where long after the book has ended you will walk the streets in your mind.”

  —Stephanie Cowell, author of Claude & Camille

  “A novel bound to be next summer’s guilty pleasure! I love Amanda and Olive and how we come to understand what links them despite the passage of time. I love what Lehmann has done with the 1907 city—how real it is.”

  —Beverly Swerling, author of City of Promise

  “A splendid banquet of fashion, style, and both old and contemporary New York City, couched in a riveting story. A feast not to be missed!”

  —Lynn Cullen, author of The Creation of Eve

  “Anyone who loves vintage clothing, feels the pull of nostalgia, and has a taste for retro will be utterly transported by this wise and wonderful novel. A mesmerizing story about two women separated by a century but united by a quest for independence, a talent for business, and the challenges of being a woman that arise in every era.”

  —Pamela Redmond, author of The Possibility of You

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  In memory of my father

  Taxi stand on Madison Square, 1900

  AMANDA

  MY APPOINTMENT WAS in an apartment building called Stewart House—a white brick high-rise on Tenth Street, near Broadway, built in the sixties. I’d walked past it many times but had never been inside. The corner balconies, circular driveway, and chandeliered lobby made my tenement, just a few blocks away, seem downright prehistoric, though my rent was modern enough.

  Fifteen floors up, at the end of a long hallway decorated with framed impressionist posters from museum exhibitions, a barefoot man wearing jeans and a T-shirt stood at the door. I guessed he was in his early forties, clinging to his twenties. Or maybe I was projecting. It happened to be my birthday, and I wasn’t too thrilled about turning thirty-nine.

  “I’m here to see Jane Kelly,” I said. “She called about some clothes.”

  “Come on in.”

  He gave me a look-over as I stepped inside. I couldn’t tell if he liked what he saw. Whatever. I found him attractive enough but not my type. Black hair, tan, a beard. I didn’t go for men with facial hair—too scratchy.

  He led me into a tidy living room furnished with Danish teak furniture, an amoeba-shaped coffee table, and a curved-back chair that might have been an original Eames. Furniture dealers would be salivating, but I wasn’t there for the tables and chairs. In the corner, a tiny woman with sparse wispy gray hair sat hunched over a desk, staring into a computer screen.

  “Grandma? Someone here about clothes.”

  Funny to hear a grown man calling someone Grandma. On the other hand, with a grandparent as old as this lady, he could be a member of AARP. Did he live with her? Maybe he was a good guy taking care of his aging relative—or maybe he was just a freeloader.

  “The secondhand shop?” she asked, still staring at the screen.

  I preferred “vintage clothing store” but let it go. “Amanda Rosenbloom from Astor Place Vintage. You asked me to come by?”

  “He was going to call the Salvation Army,” she said while scrolling down the front page of NYTimes.com. “Can you believe it?”

  Grandson gave me a thumbs-up and left the room. The old woman didn’t turn around. I peered out the set of triple windows. They faced north, so no direct sunlight warmed the room, but the high floor offered a spectacular view of Union Square, the Flatiron, the Empire State Building …

  “Nice view,” I said. She still didn’t turn around. I stepped forward and cleared my throat. She clicked onto the obituary page. Maybe her hearing was bad. I stepped closer and spoke louder. “Would you like to show me what you have?”

  “I don’t see how a business like that can make it.” She clicked on a headline about the death of “Mr. Wizard” from a TV science show back in the fifties. “How many old clothes can a person sell in a day?”

  I let silence answer that one. She finally turned and peered at me through her glasses. Then she rose, her freckled, bony hand gripping the top of the chair for support. So frail. Too skinny. Not long for this world. I couldn’t help but think of skeletons.

  “I’m getting rid of it all,” she said, reaching for a metal cane leaning against the desk. “Cancer. Nothing they can do. So it goes.”

  “I’m sorry.” Unfortunately, in my line of work, part of the territory is relieving clients of their possessions when the end is near.

  “Not a tragedy. Not at my age. Ninety-eight,” she announced with pride. “Though I was hoping,” she added bitterly, “to make it to a hundred.”

  Mrs. Kelly’s point of view certainly helped put my own age problem into perspective.

  “I’ll show you what I have,” she said. “Some are designer dresses. A Rudi Gernreich. You know how rare those are? The Salvation Army!”

  “I’ll need to sort through and see what has resale value.” I set my hobo bag on the coffee table. “Then we can agree on a price.” Taking baby steps to match her pace, I followed Mrs. Kelly out of the room. “I noticed this building is named Stewart House. Is that for the old department store?”

  “The A. T. Stewart department store stood right here. Of course, by the time I was born, they were out of business and Wanamaker’s had moved in.”

  “But Wanamaker’s was across the street.” I was sure of this. The subway station on Astor Place had an exit that used to go directly into the store. Now it led into a Kmart.

  “They added that building later,” she said. “This was the original.”

  “Really.” I was miffed at myself for getting that wrong. “I didn’t realize there were two buildings.” I was a compulsive Googler, and my favorite search subject was Manhattan history, especially accounts of what used to be where.

  “They called it the Iron Palace. Burned down in the fifties. A beautiful landmark gone, just like that.”

  I pictured the flames shooting into the sky right where we stood. “And now hardly anyone knows Wanamaker’s existed, much less A. T. Stewart.”

  “Why should they?” She slid the two folding doors of her closet apart. A wide expanse of clothing hung neatly on wood hangers. “Set aside anything that might fetch a good price. Then we’ll talk.” She hobbled back to the living room.

  An odd aspect of my work: “vintage clothing” is a euphemism for “clothing worn by people who are probably dead.” Unlike other antiques, clothing had actually draped on a human being—clung to the skin, absorbed the sweat, and warmed the body. I tended to forget those ghostly associations while looking at potential merchandise; the excitement of the hunt took over as I searched through piece after piece, hoping to discover something precious and extraordinary.

  Jane Kelly had been a snazzy dresser in her time. It was hard to imagine her shrunken frame filling out the assortment of fashions on the rack. I set aside some casual forties and fifties day dresses that would sell. A great collection of sixties cocktail dresses suggested that Jane’s income had grown in tandem with an expanding social life.

  The Rudi Gernreich was fantastic: a mod floor-length A-line knit dress in mint condition. The upper bodice had a low scoop neck with a tiny checkerboard pattern of black squares on a purple background. From the empire waist to the knee, the same pattern was blown up
to larger size. From the knee to the hem was a reverse pattern of purple squares on a black background. Very mod, very op art. Could easily go for five or six hundred dollars.

  A sexy hourglass dress looked like it might fit me, and the royal blue would go great with my pale skin and black hair. I decided to give it to myself as a present—assuming Mrs. Kelly and I agreed on a deal. It would be perfect for my birthday dinner. White peep-toe heels, crimson lipstick, and matching nail polish would complete the look.

  After going through everything and making my selections, I came up with a number and hoped it would sound high. If she insisted, I’d go up to thirteen hundred for the lot. I took a few stacks of clothing into the living room. Mrs. Kelly sat on the sofa with her eyes closed and her mouth open. Unsure how to rouse her, I proceeded as if she were awake. “I’d be willing to pay you a thousand.”

  Her eyes flicked open. “For which piece?”

  “All of it,” I said, suppressing a smile.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “I’m in business.” I crossed my arms.

  “Two thousand,” she said.

  “Twelve hundred, but that’s as high as I can go.”

  She pulled a sixties shift from the pile. Really cute, with a mod black-and-white flower-power design and an unfortunate stain on the bust that I hoped to get out.

  “You don’t want this. It used to be my favorite dress. I was at a party laughing at some stupid joke and spilled red wine … never forgave myself.”

  “I could take a shot at cleaning it.”

  “If you want to waste your time.” She tossed it to me. “For eighteen hundred, I’ll throw in the trunk.” She nodded toward an old flat-top steamer trunk. It had a few scratches and age wear, but with some olive oil and lemon juice, it would shine up just fine. Still, I had no space to put that clunky thing, and nobody used them anymore.

  “There’s clothing inside,” she said. “Things that go back a long time. We’re talking Edwardian. On second thought, nineteen hundred for everything.”

  Amazing how the urge to bargain could be so strong, even when facing the grave. “May I look inside?”

  “Go ahead.” She leaned her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes again.

  Kneeling on the parquet wood floor, I removed a stack of New Yorker magazines and lifted the top. A whiff of dust shot up my nostrils with the familiar cocktail of mothballs and mold. A removable top shelf was crammed with buttons, lengths of ribbon and lace, white silk gloves, and a faded but darling striped parasol.

  The main part of the chest was packed tight. Someone smart, presumably Mrs. Kelly, had stored the clothing inside pillowcases—a good way to protect it. Inside one, I found some white cotton nightgowns. The next one had some petticoats and camisoles. Another held a surprise treasure: a matching fur stole and muff. The plush stole was about a yard long, with a fox head and two feet on one end, the tail and two feet on the other. Black vacant glass eyes stared back at me; small white fangs seemed poised to bite. A label on the stole said C.G. GUNTHER’S SONS FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK. The label made it worth more. I snuggled my hands inside the muff. Something hard pressed against my knuckle.

  Strange.

  I looked inside. The black satin lining had been torn at the seam and sewn closed with uneven stitches. Had someone hidden something inside? A wad of cash, perhaps?

  I sneaked a look at Mrs. Kelly. She snored lightly with her mouth hanging open. Did I dare investigate? I crept silently across the room to retrieve my hobo bag. The big brown leather bag originally belonged to my mother. She bought it back in the seventies on one of our excursions to Altman’s department store. Decades later, I rescued it from the top shelf of her closet. Now the soft and slouchy bag went with me everywhere, and so did the sewing kit I kept inside.

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor by the trunk, I dug out the old Schrafft’s candy tin that held my sewing supplies. I used the seam ripper to remove enough of the stitching so I could pull out the object hidden inside: a black leather-bound book.

  Inside the front cover, the name Olive Westcott had been written in neat cursive script. I turned the page and realized it was a journal. Why had it been sewn inside the muff?

  A feeling of déjà vu came over me, as if I’d done this before, right here in this room. I shook it off and read the first entry.

  September 18, 1907

  I’ve had this journal for ages. Father gave it to me when I turned twelve and I never bothered to use it. Now that I’m twenty I finally have something to write about. As of today I’m an official New Yorker! Father is managing the Woolworth’s on 34th Street and we’ve just moved in to an apartment-hotel on the corner of 29th Street and Madison Avenue. It’s awfully grand and up-to-date: long-distance telephone, electricity, hot and cold running water, steam heat, and—luxury of luxuries—daily maid service. I can’t wait for my future to begin!

  I wanted to read more. The adventures of a young woman arriving in Manhattan never got old for me. I could ask Mrs. Kelly to let me borrow it, but what if she refused? Did she even know it was there? It would be simpler to just take it and return it later, no harm done.

  After checking to make sure Mrs. Kelly was still sleeping, I slipped the journal into my hobo bag—totally impulsive and dishonorable and not like me at all, as if I’d momentarily been possessed.

  Turning back to the trunk, I continued to sort through. Everything appeared to have been laundered before being stored and was in good shape; no moisture or creepy-crawlies had compromised the condition. A white lace tea gown might sell; some women liked using those as wedding gowns. Otherwise, hardly any of it would appeal to my customers. The long skirts were heavy and cumbersome. The white puffy shirtwaists did nothing to flatter a woman’s shape. Inside the last pillowcase, I found the prettiest item: a gorgeous green satin dress with a purple sash. I held it up to admire.

  “That’s in perfect condition,” Mrs. Kelly said, almost giving me a heart attack. Her piercing voice gave no clue that she’d been asleep.

  “Not really,” I replied. “The material is extremely fragile, and these perspiration stains under the arms will never come out.”

  “You could put that on right now and go to dinner at the Plaza.”

  “If the Plaza wasn’t closed for renovations because it’s being turned into condos.”

  “The world is going downhill fast,” she said with a crooked smile. “I’m lucky to be getting out now.”

  I sighed in sympathy—and to prepare her for my verdict. Clothing from before the twenties was more often for display than for wearing. It was almost cruel to traumatize the delicate fabric and trimmings by inserting a body. I’d be nervous letting customers try it on. “I don’t generally carry stock this old. As much as I love clothing from this period, I don’t get the sort of customers who would buy it.”

  I preferred dealing with clothes from the thirties to the sixties, and only pieces I really loved. I had a special attraction to minidresses, go-go boots, and black capris. Funny how styles from your own parents’ day tend to call out with that seductive aura of nostalgia. Fashions that evolved after the sixties never impressed me like clothes from earlier decades could. The seventies were practically ruined by polyester. That material would probably survive along with the cockroaches after the human race got wiped out by global warming or the next ice age, whichever came first.

  “Just give me two thousand for everything,” Mrs. Kelly said, “and we’ll call it a day.”

  We were back at two thousand? “No, sorry.”

  “Are you telling me these lovely garments aren’t worth as much even though they’re older?”

  “They’re worth something—sometimes quite a bit. They just don’t move well. Look, here’s what we could do. I’ll take the other clothes for twelve hundred, and I’ll take the things from the trunk on consignment. If they sell, we’ll split it. The trunk itself you can keep. I don’t have room for it.”

  “What’s the split?”

&
nbsp; “Sixty/forty.”

  “Sixty for me?”

  I smiled. “For me.” On that, I would not budge.

  “Fine, take it,” she said, as if everything had turned into garbage. “I don’t want to see any of it again.”

  “Before I go, I’ll make up an itemized list of the consignment pieces, and I’ll need you to sign my standard agreement on the terms.”

  “Go ahead.” She aimed a remote at the television. “Do what you need to do.”

  While she watched The View, I wrote out an inventory of all the Edwardian clothes from the trunk. After that was done, I handed her the list, along with a copy of my agreement and a pen. She put on her glasses and read every word of the agreement before signing it. She didn’t bother to check the list.

  “I can take a few things with me,” I told her, “but would it be possible for you to have the rest delivered to my shop?”

  “I’ll have my grandson bring everything else.”

  “That would be great,” I said, taking care not to reveal the journal as I opened my hobo bag. I placed the hourglass dress, stained A-line, stole, and muff at the top. “When he comes, I’ll give him a check for the rest. Here’s a card with all my contact information.”

  “I know where you are,” she said, waving a hand in dismissal.

  “Okay, then.” I started out of the room. Clearly, she wasn’t going to say good-bye, so I added for my own sense of closure, “Nice meeting you.”

  There was no sign of the grandson, so I tried opening the front door, but it was locked. I turned the deadbolt, but the door still didn’t open. The grandson reappeared. “I’ll get that.”

  “That’s okay. I’ve got it.” I turned the bottom lock, but the door refused to open.

  He turned the deadbolt back to its original position. The door opened. “There you go.”

  “Thanks,” I said, wishing he’d let me do it, though I knew he was just being polite.

  “Take it easy,” he said.

  I nodded. “You, too.”

  As I walked down the hallway, past the impressionist posters to the elevator, he shut the door behind me.

  OLIVE

  “ANYTHING INTERESTING IN the news?” I asked, spreading a thin layer of butter on my roll.