Love Finds You in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin Page 2

  “You’re forgetting Hank and the guys in Composing.”

  A loud sigh came through the connection. “All Hank cares about is sports or selling an ad, and Leo and Gus in Composing are as old as Moses. I hear Mr. Wallace is single. Oops. Got a call.” Emily waggled her fingers and yanked the cord connecting them.

  Meg slammed the receiver onto its cradle. Mr. Jack Wallace might have the good looks of a leading man, but until she became a reporter, romance would have to wait.

  She faced Mr. Zimmer’s open door. Mr. Wallace nodded his head as the older man held open last week’s edition. The interloper had taken the first opportunity she’d had to move up in three years, but she wasn’t quitting yet.

  “Thanks, Oscar.” Jack held up his notebook. “I’ll get on this lakefront-building story. Bowman’s articles make me wish I’d not missed all the excitement over the past year. Getting the bond issue passed and the building built was a swell way to put some men to work and, at the same time, provide good entertainment for the town.”

  Oscar hitched up his pants. “And add some beauty to the place. That old pavilion they called a ballroom had to go. Now with the expanded beach and new bathhouse, we’ll draw more tourists from Illinois—and that means money for the merchants.” A shrill ring filled the air, and he grabbed the candlestick phone. Lifting the earpiece to his ear, he barked, “Zimmer.”

  Jack edged toward the open door. Miss Alden sat hunched over the desk adjacent to his, her telephone tucked under her chin, writing on a form. Her tousled hair, the color of dark chocolate, fell over her forehead. He couldn’t help but smile. Like his twin sister, Kate, she pursed her lips when she concentrated. All determination…like a few minutes ago when she’d burst into Oscar’s office.

  What was it she’d said? Had he taken away her hope for a promotion? A burning sensation singed his insides. Only one job filled his need, and it wasn’t here. Too bad he couldn’t pass on this one and move on.

  “Sorry for the interruption.”

  Jack faced his new boss.

  Oscar came around his desk. “I need to head over to Composing. The guys have a question.”

  “We were done anyway.”

  By the time Jack crossed to Miss Alden’s desk, she’d finished her call. She looked up, her smile not reaching her golden-brown eyes. She pushed back a lock of hair from her forehead.

  Jack smiled. “The article you described earlier sounded interesting.”

  “Doesn’t matter, if he won’t consider it.” She brushed something off her skirt and shrugged. “Funny how women can vote now, but we’re not allowed to report on the politicians we’re voting for.”

  Vote? Weren’t they just talking about her article? He allowed his eyes to linger on her heart-shaped face as she fluffed her loose waves. Not the type he normally went for, but the woman was definitely appealing. “Maybe we could work together on something.”

  She leaned forward as her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

  Jack pushed aside a stack of papers and perched on a corner of her desk. He folded his arms. “I’m to report on progress at the new building. The piece you wrote could be a tie-in.”

  As though someone flicked a switch, the twinkle left her eyes. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Wallace, but I don’t think Mr. Zimmer would appreciate us working behind his back. He’s already…” She clamped her mouth shut, and her red lips compressed into a thin line.

  “Please call me Jack. Who said our story would be without Oscar’s knowledge?”

  She tapped her pencil on the desk. “It’s the only way what you’re proposing can be done. It’s tempting, Mr. Wallace, but I can’t take the risk.”

  What kind of man was Zimmer that he wouldn’t even read her piece and see if it was any good? Jack already knew. The kind of man most editors Oscar’s age were. Men who believed that news reporting was for men only. It wasn’t like she wanted to interview Baby Face Nelson at his current hideout. Now her comment about voting made sense. Someday women would snag reporter jobs and do well. Nothing to say he couldn’t help move progress along.

  “Anyone who helps me gets credit. No secrets from me.” Jack swallowed the invitation to lunch poised on the tip of his tongue. He had to focus on one thing only, and that didn’t include women. Besides, she didn’t seem very interested in him.

  She stood and picked up a stack of forms. “Thanks for the offer, but no. I need to get these to Composing.”

  She disappeared around the corner, her hips moving in a delightful sway as her skirt pleat lifted and revealed a pair of shapely calves. He might have to rethink swearing off women.

  Meg opened the closet, grateful the day was over. A man’s black wool coat, with a plaid scarf looped around its lapels, hung next to her winter wrap. Mr. Zimmer’s threadbare overcoat and his son Lester’s old flight jacket, which he claimed a war hero gave him, hung nearby. The black one must belong to Mr. Wallace.

  She ran her fingers down the sleeve. Cashmere? What else would feel so smooth and soft? She yanked her hand back. What am I doing? Heat traveled to her face, and she peeked into the Composing area. Mr. Zimmer sat bent over the Linotype keyboard. Mr. Wallace stood beside him, his dark blond hair in contrast to the older man’s white tangle.

  Meg grabbed her coat, and the plaid scarf slipped to the floor. She stepped away then stopped. She couldn’t leave it there. Her heart racing, she picked up the muffler and caught a whiff of pine soap. A warm sensation filled her. She needed to leave. Now. She draped the scarf over the black coat then called out, “Night, Mr. Zimmer.”

  He looked up and waved. But it was Mr. Wallace’s grin and “Good night, Miss Alden” that sent her scurrying to the door before he could notice the flush on her cheeks.

  Chapter Two

  Meg charged up Broad Street, head bent against the wind. Whatever had happened back there at the coat closet, she had to ignore it. The man was a thief and a flirt. She’d watched him charm Emily with his lopsided grin, saying how perfect she was for her job. Meg thought the girl would swoon right there at the switchboard.

  All day she’d endured the sound of him pecking on his typewriter and asking questions over the phone to which she already had answers. He’d probably never even seen the town or the lake until he arrived for the job. Didn’t Mr. Zimmer realize she could put heart into those articles that Mr. Wallace couldn’t?

  Meg opened the door to the Powder Puff Beauty Shop and scrunched her nose. Helen was using that new permanent wave machine again. How could anyone allow such harsh chemicals on their hair for the sake of a few curls?

  A woman giggled from behind a curtain. “Helen, I never dreamed I could look like this. You are wonderful.”

  “Not me, Mrs. Schroder, my magic machine here.”

  Meg hung her coat on a wall hook. “I’m here, Helen.”

  Helen McArdle stuck her head out from behind a drape drawn across one of the workstations, a pink-and-black scarf tied around her head, her face made up as if she were about to step onto a movie set. “I’ll be done in a minute. Wait over there.” She gestured toward another workstation.

  Meg nodded. “Okay. I sure need your touch today.” She sauntered to an open door that led into Helen’s living quarters and waved at Helen’s mom, who sat in an upholstered chair with her legs stretched out on an ottoman. “Hi, Mrs. McArdle. How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty good, ’cept for my one appointment today taking three hours. Too much standing on these bad legs.”

  Meg stepped into the bungalow’s small living room. “Maybe you need to cut back and leave the longer appointments to Helen.”

  Mrs. McArdle waved off the comment. “I’m not ready to let a few aches and pains get me down. Only take one or two long-time customers a day now anyway.” She offered a smile. “I’m fine. God’s gifted my girl and she’s doing a good job, but I don’t want her to wear herself out.” She went back to reading her Good Housekeeping magazine.

  Meg turned and stepped into what had once been the ho
me’s enclosed sunporch to wait. Her own mother was one of those ladies Mrs. McArdle kept as customers, but how much longer would that last? The lady had seemed to go downhill a lot since Christmas.

  Helen fantasized about becoming a hairstylist to movie stars, but would she ever be able to leave Lake Geneva to follow her dream if her mom didn’t improve? Even if she were free to move away, a person probably needed connections for a position like that.

  A sudden thought caught Meg up short. Did her own dream of being a reporter garner a similar reaction? Her father didn’t give the idea much weight. But then, he hadn’t given much credit to anything she’d set out to do after her grammar school teacher said she’d never amount to anything.

  She moved to the workstation and stared at her sorry reflection in the mirror. Not only did her hair look terrible, but the tightness around her eyes made her look old.

  “You aren’t kidding you need help. Today’s wind got you good. No hat?” Helen came up behind Meg and caught her gaze in the mirror.

  “A gust stole my cloche when I chased an envelope into the middle of Broad Street. Nearly got run over by Fred Newman in his old truck.” Meg raked her hand through what used to be wavy hair. “Guess I’ll take a shingle cut again.”

  “Longer styles are returning. Want to grow it out?”

  Hours of crimping with a hot iron filled Meg’s thoughts, and she grimaced. “Too much work. No thanks.”

  “I don’t mean real long. That’s passé. Just a bit longer—like mine.” Helen untied her scarf and fluffs of soft platinum waves tumbled to a couple of inches above her shoulders.

  Meg almost laughed out loud. If she had luminous skin and features like Helen’s full mouth and turned-up nose, she’d even consider going blond. “I have enough trouble with finger waves.”

  “Don’t you want to catch the attention of the new reporter?” Helen’s hazel eyes twinkled in the mirror.

  Meg flinched and spoke her next words at a measured pace. “How did you hear about him?”

  “I saw Emily Johnson at Arnold’s lunch counter. We shared tuna sandwiches, Cokes, and gossip.”

  “Emily is a little man-crazy, if you ask me. I’m not surprised she gushed, after the way he flirted with her. He’s good-looking, I suppose, but I have other fish to fry.”

  Helen scrunched a handful of Meg’s hair in her fist then let it fall loose. “Some Marcel waves would turn Jack’s head.”

  “Jack?”

  “Isn’t Jack Wallace his name? That’s what Emily told me.” She ran a comb through Meg’s tousled locks.

  “That’s the man. Why would I want to attract a scoundrel?”

  “Did I hear you right?” She fluffed Meg’s hair as if visualizing the finished style in her head.

  Meg faced Helen. “Mr. Zimmer hired him not two days after George Bowman left.”

  The hairdresser’s eyes widened. “His job is the same one you were writing that article for?”

  “It took all last night to write the story. Mr. Zimmer never read it, just introduced me to Mr. Wallace, the new reporter.” Meg bit down on her quivering lip. The last thing she wanted was to get the weepies.

  Helen leaned in. “You’re always saying that God has a plan. Maybe it’s His plan for you to meet a nice guy and forget being a reporter. Or maybe Mr. Wallace is going to help you with your dream.”

  Meg hated the penetrating look in Helen’s eyes. Why did she have to bring God into this? She picked a hair off her skirt. “Mr. Wallace did ask me to help him on a piece about the new building.”

  Helen’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled. “Good. When you do that and Mr. Zimmer finds out—”

  “I told him no.”

  Helen’s penciled blond brows lifted. “What?”

  Meg squirmed. “I already got in trouble for over-editing Lester’s stories.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “This is just between us, but Lester’s work requires more than a proof job for grammar and typos. I felt bad for him, being that he’s the boss’s son, so I rewrote some lines as examples. All he did was copy my work. Mr. Zimmer saw him doing that and laid down the law.” She let out a deep breath. “Other than getting Mr. Zimmer’s coffee and doing regular office duties, as long as I’m at the paper, I’ll only be a want-ad taker and sometime-gatherer of society news.”

  A stab of guilt pierced Meg’s conscience. Every time Lester begged her to look at his latest article, she couldn’t resist the opportunity to see her work in print, even if she wasn’t recognized as the writer. Bowing to guilt, last week she’d told Lester he was on his own in hopes that he’d learned enough to get by. Now the new man was tempting her. The very charming and handsome new man.

  “But working on an article with Jack is different than editing or proofing, isn’t it?” Helen asked.

  “Yes. But no woman has yet to write a front-page article for the News-Trib. It would have to be done on the sly.”

  Helen tipped her head. “Maybe Jack could convince Oscar to give you a shot.”

  “Ha! You don’t know Mr. Zimmer very well. He’ll go to his grave before letting a woman write news for his paper.”

  Helen draped a white cape over Meg’s shoulders. “You can tell Mother Helen all about your woes while I give you a wave. You never know, maybe Oscar likes waves better than straight hair.”

  Before Meg could protest, Helen disappeared out of the cubicle. She returned a moment later, pushing the permanent wave machine she’d showed off last time Meg visited the shop.

  Meg eyed the tiny metal curlers dangling like crystals on a chandelier. Did she really want all those stinky chemicals on her hair?

  “Here’s the look we’re going for.” Helen held up a Photoplay magazine, open to a profile view of Jean Harlow. “Those Marcel waves will be perfect. When your hair grows, I’ll be able to give you a softer look.”

  “Helen, I’ll be going now, but I need to pay.”

  Meg turned.

  Tiny springlike coils framed Edith Schroder’s puffy face like a helmet. Not a Marcel wave in sight.

  “I can’t wait for Howard to see my new hairdo.” Mrs. Schroder patted her graying spirals. They sprang back like a coil-spring mattress.

  While Helen walked her customer to the door, Meg worked her fingers through her limp hair. Her reflection seemed to mock her.

  Helen returned and pushed the machine closer to Meg. “Now, let’s get a permanent going on you.”

  She shook her head. “Not doing it. Coils aren’t for me.”

  “Who said anything about coils?”

  “I saw that woman’s hair.”

  Helen’s throaty laugh filled the space. “Edith wanted those things. You think I like them?”

  Meg shrugged. “You gave them to her.”

  “You should’ve been here when I tried to talk her into waves. Yours will be like mine after it grows.” She turned to give Meg a back view of her head.

  Meg studied the soft yellow-white waves. Last year Helen had taken some criticism for bleaching her hair, but every time a stranger did a double take, thinking she was Jean Harlow, she thrilled at being compared to her favorite movie star.

  Maybe a change would be good. Besides, hair always grew out. “How much?”

  “Normally ten dollars, but for you, five.”

  Meg had only allotted a dollar for a trim. “If you want to see State Fair tomorrow night, I can’t get a perm until after payday.”

  Helen rested a fist on her hip. “When is payday?”

  “Friday.”

  “We can go then. If Harlow isn’t in a movie, I don’t need to see it that bad.”

  Jack rolled down his shirtsleeves while the large rollers spun and spit out the front page. He soaked in the wave of pleasure washing over him. How many times as a boy in knee pants had he trailed behind Dad when they visited the Composing room, then later watched the huge printing presses churn out the Chicago Beacon?

  He had nothing but admiration for his father,
the owner and publisher of Chicago’s second largest daily. But unlike Oscar Zimmer, who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, Dad probably didn’t know how to run a Linotype machine. Jack had learned more today than in five years of journalism school.

  When he’d opted to head to DC after college graduation, things had become strained between him and Dad. His sister had dreamed for years of running the Beacon and he’d hoped Dad would train her for the job in his absence, but it never happened.

  His stomach rumbled, and he checked his pocket watch. Seven o’clock. No wonder. Fastening his shirt cuffs as he came down the stairs from the second floor, he entered the newsroom and strode to Oscar’s office.

  The older man was working his way into his suit coat.

  “I don’t suppose I could interest you in grabbing some chow.”

  Oscar flicked off the desk light. “Thanks, but if I don’t come home, Doris will have something to say. She always keeps my supper warm on Wednesday nights.”

  Jack nodded as he scanned the deserted office. “Guess Lester left too.”

  “Had some kind of gathering for Great War veterans.” Oscar plodded to the closet and pulled a gray overcoat off a hanger.

  Jack came up behind him and reached for his own coat. “Lester was in the war? I didn’t realize he was old enough.”

  “He isn’t, but he can’t seem to get enough of it. Drives me and my wife crazy.” Oscar set a checkered fedora on his snowy mound of hair. “The Gargoyle has a special on Wednesdays. Not sure what ’tis, though.”

  Jack buttoned his coat and draped his scarf under the lapels. “I’ve been there a couple of times. Grand restaurant. But I think I’ll find a diner and get some soup.”

  “Try the Utopia Café down the street. They make a new soup every day.”

  Jack set his fedora on his head, thanked Oscar for the tip, and stepped into the brisk evening air. The Utopia occupied a building two blocks to the east. He turned that direction then stopped suddenly. A table for one held little appeal. He was going home.

  By the time Jack steered his Ford toward the Elgin Club to begin the mile-long drive to the lakefront, he felt as if he could eat anything, cooked or raw. A bologna sandwich would have to do. It was the only thing, except for a carton of eggs, in the icebox.