Letters Across the Sea by Genevieve Graham (spicy books to read .txt) 📕

Arnie got to his feet. “I’ll be back,” he promised.

“I’m coming too,” Hannah said, jumping up. “Anything to get away from this conversation.”

After Arnie left, Max pointed at my forehead. “You’re doing that wrinkly thinking thing.”

“Am I?” Self-conscious, I put two fingers on the spot above the bridge of my nose and smoothed out the crease. “I guess I’m still confused. Why would a newspaper hide these stories?”

“I imagine that sometimes—”

“And if we accept that the other papers are hiding things, how can we know for certain the Zhurnal isn’t as well?”

“Well, if you—”

“I could read a dozen newspapers reporting on the same thing differently. How do I know which is the truth?”

I stopped, realizing he was staring at me, a bemused sort of smile on his face.

“What?”

He lifted one shoulder. “I’m just listening.”

“And? What do you think? How do you know the truth, Max?”

“I suppose you can’t ever know for sure. Not really, unless you’re actually there. Like everything else, the more you read and educate yourself, the better.”

There was a hole in that argument, too. “But based on this discussion, the more you read, the less you actually know for sure, isn’t that right?”

He chuckled. “I do love the way you think, Molly Ryan. I meant it when I said you’d make a great journalist. You ask the right questions, and you go after answers like a terrier.”

I looked at the grass and started picking at it. “I don’t know, Max. That dream seems very far away these days.”

“Life’s hard right now for everyone. Things’ll improve.”

“I used to tell myself that,” I said, “but every day it’s the same, and it’s not getting any better. Trust me on that.”

Sympathy shone in his eyes. “So… you’re working at Eaton’s. Want to talk about it?”

I hesitated, still feeling guilty—and disappointed—that I wasn’t working for Mr. Dreyfus instead. Until now, I hadn’t talked with anyone about Eaton’s—no one else had asked.

“I should be grateful I have a job, I guess. They say one in three people is out of work right now. But Eaton’s is the one place on earth I never wanted to work.”

“How is it?”

I rubbed the tips of my fingers against the callus on my thumb, a habit I’d started doing every time I thought of work. “As bad as everyone says. Hundreds of women crowded into a room with rows and rows of sewing machines. It’s always noisy—not from talking, because we can’t talk—from the machines. And it’s hot. I don’t mean hot like today. I mean it’s like they squeeze all of the day’s heat into one stuffy room and never open any doors.” I inhaled, relishing the bouquet of grass, sun, and water. “I can’t tell you how sweet the air smells right now.”

“I’m sorry, Moll.”

“It’s like a dungeon. And the work never stops. The boss…” I shuddered. “He times us with a stopwatch. We have to sew a certain number of garments or we’re not paid. The first week I was there I was short by one jacket, and I went home with nothing after a full day of work. I show up, cut, and sew until my blisters grow blisters.”

“At least you’re bringing home some money.”

“A little. But pay for women has been cut up to fifty per cent in those places. It used to be $12.50 a week, but I’m lucky to make eight dollars now. I feel like I’m going backwards. I feel like—”

I stopped, at a loss. It was too painful to describe it. Too degrading.

“You can tell me,” he said.

I looked into the soft, sturdy landing of his deep brown eyes, and knew he was right. If anyone would understand, it was him.

“I feel like the bits and pieces of thread I have to sweep up at the end of the day. I feel like… debris.”

But the warmth that softened his expression assured me that I was more than that, and my stomach suddenly felt as if it could float from all the butterflies in there.

We both looked up when Hannah’s shadow passed over us, and an unfamiliar sense of shame sank in my stomach. I was uneasy, and yet I wasn’t sure why. It’s not as if I’d done anything wrong.

She handed me a cup of lemonade, her gaze direct. “Are you two gonna sit here with serious faces all day?”

I faltered and took a sip, afraid of what she might be thinking. We’d known each other for so long we could practically read each other’s minds. But she didn’t say anything more, and I exhaled as she went to grab our towels.

“You know,” Max started up, drawing me in again. “I was thinking that you—”

Hannah dumped a towel over Max’s head. “Come on, big brother. Let’s go swimming.”

The rest of the afternoon sped by, laughter and conversation blending as we rotated between swimming and sunbathing. The sun felt exquisite on my skin, but I had to wrap a towel around my pale shoulders so they wouldn’t burn. When our stomachs began to grumble, we ate the rugelach Mrs. Dreyfus had baked for us, then Max splurged on ice cream. He knew I couldn’t afford to buy a cone, but he also knew I wouldn’t say no if he offered me one. For a little while, I forgot about the humiliation of my job and the hopelessness of the city, and I had a wonderful time.

When the sun started to set, we gathered our things and headed back to the streetcar stop. Hannah, I could tell, wasn’t feeling well. The sun had worn her down. David stepped in at the first opportunity, gallantly lending her his arm and offering to walk her home, even though we were already going the same way. I thought the effort was adorable, and from the look Hannah gave him, she did too.

The sidewalk was less crowded now, the pace sluggish but easy. The worst heat of the day had dissipated along with the sun, and the breeze tickling my slightly sunburnt skin