Hattie Glover’s Millinery

investigating her.”
Rumsfield lifted one bushy eyebrow and gave an annoyed grunt.
“I know, you’re a professional, but just… please be careful. I never want her to know that I—”
Rumsfield squinted at him until Guy squirmed as if he were being roasted on a spit. “You really like this one. Sure you want me to poke around?”
This was his chance to stop it. He knew what he should say. Guy wavered on the razor’s edge of “should” and “shouldn’t,” then he leaped.
“Yes.”
*
As soon as she returned from her luncheon with Hardy, Hattie sent a note to Mrs. Gladys Pruett asking if she might call that very afternoon. Time was of the essence for Miss Pruett, but also Hattie feared changing her mind if she didn’t act immediately. The proposition of speaking to Mrs. Pruett about an intimate family matter was appalling and frightening.
A Gladwell does not pry into other’s affairs, but tends to her own concerns.
For the supposed gift, Hattie chose a pale blue Tudor beret with a single feather adorning the front. She wrapped it in tissue and placed it in a box. She had told the messenger to await a reply from Gladys Pruett concerning the visit, and now waited impatiently. Perhaps it was time to invest in a telephone for the shop. Many of her clients had one, but Hattie did not expect many calls nor could she think of any reason she might need to reach a customer quickly until now.
Would Mrs. Pruett read Hattie’s manufactured pretext and wonder why the proprietress wanted to deliver a hat personally rather send it with the messenger? Hattie had explained the hat was created specifically for Mrs. Pruett and Hattie wanted to make any requested changes. Pruett’s interest in a surprise gift might prevent her from questioning the story. But if she asked her daughter about it, would Jennifer embellish too much detail, making the set-up seem more preposterous?
Hattie’s mind buzzed with worries as she went about her business for the next hour. The hearty sandwich she’d eaten weighed heavily in her stomach, and her anxious thoughts wavered between the Pruett affair and recollections of her lunch with Guy Hardy. She felt guilty for revealing so much to him, yet relieved at having some of the burden of Jennifer Pruett taken off her. Why did she instinctively trust this man to help and to keep from gossiping about the matter?
Deep in thinking about the way Hardy’s eyes crinkled at the corners whenever he smiled and how the low timbre of his voice ruffled her like a finger tracing down her spine, Hattie nearly jumped out of her skin when someone entered the shop.
It was the messenger delivering Mrs. Pruett’s reply.
I have a bit of time this afternoon. Lovely of you to deliver the hat in person. I look forward to seeing it, although I’m sure no adjustments will be necessary. You do fine work.
Mrs. G. L. Pruett
Hattie tipped the messenger boy and asked Rose to tend the shop. “I’m taking a hat to Mrs. Pruett in order to further her daughter’s cause if I am able.”
Rose’s eyes went round. “Good luck. I hope you can make her see reason.” If she wondered how Hattie would dare broach a topic that was none of her business, she did not express that doubt aloud.
Uncertainty and needling anxiety pricked Hattie during the tram ride which carried her within walking distance of the Pruetts’ town house. It was no Mayfair address, but located in a respectable, well-to-do neighborhood. Nearing the tall brick house, she straightened her spine, clutched the hat box handle, and let herself through the side gate to knock at the servants’ entrance.
The staff must have been told to expect her for the young maid who let her in did not express surprise, only asked to take a peek in the box.
“Libbie, mind your manners,” the housekeeper scolded from the table where she sat with a cup of tea and a newspaper. “Take Mrs. Glover to Mrs. Pruett’s sitting room.”
“Yes, Mrs. Harris.” Adjusting her cap and straightening her apron, the girl led the way from the servants’ dining room up two narrow flights of stairs.
“May I see it now?” she asked when they reached the top landing.
Hattie allowed her a peek into the box before the maid guided her to Gladys Pruett’s sitting room, knocked on the door, and announced her.
Hattie took a slow, calming breath before entering the doily-draped private chamber. Her host, dressed in a silk lounging robe prior to dressing for dinner, lay on a chaise. Thin to the point of gauntness, the woman was as blonde and frail-looking as her daughter but without the grace of youth to counterbalance a permanent, fretful frown.
“Ah, Mrs. Glover, so very good of you to personally deliver the hat. I had no idea my daughter had bought me a gift.”
Hattie searched for a place to set the hatbox, but toiletries and trinkets covered every flat surface. She offered the shiny black box with pink piping around the edge directly into Mrs. Pruett’s eager hands.
The woman lifted the lid and pulled back the tissue. “Oh my. It is exquisite.” She placed the box on a pouf ottoman and lifted the hat to examine it from every angle.
“Miss Pruett described what she wanted.”
The woman placed the beret on her head and went to her looking glass where she turned her head this way and that.
“Allow me to assist you.” Hattie grabbed a mother-of-pearl inlaid hand mirror from the dressing table and held it at an angle so Mrs. Pruett could view the effect from behind.
“Your daughter mentioned that this gift was an attempt on her part to ask forgiveness for recent behavior,” Hattie prompted, hoping to spur Mrs. Pruett would begin to talk.
“She has been difficult of late.” The woman pushed up the back of her hair to give the hat a forward tilt. It would require a foam roll beneath her thin hair to maintain sufficient support.
“Young people are sometimes very obstinate. When my