Page 17 of Coral Memories

Mary Lou glanced at Beatrice. “Would you excuse us one moment, Miss Carter?”

“You stay here. I need a break anyway.” Her teacher rose and excused herself, closing the door behind her.

Ginger shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I’m not going to lie.”

Her mother sighed heavily. “Your father is arranging your marriage.”

“I’m not getting married either,” Ginger said, folding her arms.

“Your choices are limited,” her mother replied, pitching forward in the hard wooden chair. “That’s why we’re here. Miss Carter believes in your ability. You are so much like my father; you have his brain. But your father will never understand how much more you could be.” An unwavering expression sharpenedher words. “You must seize what opportunities you can. I’m an honest woman, but if you choose to marry that dreadful young man your father picked for you, I will?—”

“I’m eighteen, Mama,” Ginger said, nearly trembling at her mother’s fierce determination. “I remember now.” Like her mother, she would do whatever it took to secure this chance.

Beatrice returned with a slip of paper for them. “Here are the addresses. Your mother will go with you on the train and wait while you have your interviews. I have written letters of reference, which both parties have already received. And I wish you the very best of luck. It has been a pleasure being your teacher.”

Ginger embraced her. “Thank you, Miss Carter. I understand everything.”

Outside the fancyoffice on Wilshire Boulevard, Ginger paused to steady her nerves. She clutched the black leather purse her mother had given her.

“Hold your head high and enter first,” Mary Lou said. “You can manage this. They’ll be lucky to have you.”

Ginger strode into the office, hardly believing she was there. Other young women sat waiting in a line of chairs, their perfume heady in the enclosed area. One man in a suit smoked while he read a newspaper. Typewriters clacked in a nearby room, and a telephone rang at the front desk. She paused, waiting for the receptionist, who answered the phone in a chirpy voice. She looked only a few years older than Ginger.

After giving her name, Ginger said, “I’m here to interview with Mr. Kurt Powell.”

Her mother had followed her into the waiting room. She wore her Sunday best dress with her only pair of pumps. Gingerwore a taupe skirt, an ivory blouse she’d made herself, and a rose-colored sweater her mother had knitted.

“I will let him know you’re here.” The woman peered around her. “May I help you, ma’am?”

“Thank you, but I’m with my daughter,” Mary Lou said. “I’ll wait here for her.”

Ginger clutched her application, taking care not to crease it. She sat beside her mother. If she got this position, she would live with a cousin on her mother’s side. How quickly her life would change.

She took her mother’s hand. In a whisper, she said, “Thank you for this. Pa will be very angry, won’t he?”

Mary Lou leaned toward her. “We both want what’s best for you.”

“But you have different ideas about that.”

“You should have all the opportunities you can manage. That’s what I want for you. When you’re ready to marry, it will be to a man you love. That’s too important of a decision to leave to someone else.” She paused, pressing Ginger’s hand for emphasis. “You have a fine mind, but you must also learn to trust your instincts. You’re in the city now.”

Another woman appeared, and the receptionist signaled to her. “Miss Mary Ellen, please follow Mrs. Bingham. Mr. Powell will see you now.”

Carefully balancing on her new pumps, Ginger followed the other woman.

As they walked through the hall, laughter spilled from an office. The other woman paused at the door, announced Ginger, and introduced Mr. Powell, a clean-cut man in a fine dark suit. Not unattractive, Ginger noted, but she wasn’t there to make such observations.

“I am pleased to meet you and thank you for seeing me.” She handed him her application. While Mr. Powell perused herinformation, she glanced toward another man who waited in an adjoining seating area. The beautifully decorated office featured a polished wooden desk with a hunter-green leather top, thick wool rugs, leather chairs, and a brocade sofa.

She had never seen anything like this.

Mr. Powell nodded and looked up, seemingly satisfied with her courses of study. “Have a seat, Miss Sheraton. Do you mind if I call you Grace?”

“I do, Mr. Powell.” She lifted her chin, determined to make a good impression. Still, it was imperative she be treated with respect, as her mother insisted. “I prefer Ginger.”

The man looked impressed with her forthrightness. “And I’m partial to Kurt. Now that we have that settled let’s talk about the position. Beatrice Carter speaks highly of your skills. She considers you at the pinnacle of the students she has taught.”

Past tense, Ginger noted, so she played along. “I enjoyed her class.”

---