At eight-thirty the next morning Mary Anne entered the telephone booth in Eickholz's Creamery and dialed California Readymade Furniture. Tom Bolden answered.
"Let me talk to Edna," Mary Anne said.
"What? Who do you want?"
When she had got hold of Mrs. Bolden, Mary Anne explained: "I'm sorry, but I can't be at work today. It's my period and I always have a lot of difficulty."
"I see," Mrs. Bolden said, in a neutral voice that showed neither doubt nor belief, only an acceptance of the inevitable. "Well, there's not much we can do about it. Will you be back on your feet tomorrow?"
"I'll keep you posted," Mary Anne said, already hanging up. The hell with you, she thought. You and your factory and chrome chairs.
She left the creamery. High heels tapping against the pavement, she walked quickly up the sidewalk, conscious of her appearance, aware of the texture and style of her hair, her careful makeup, the scent of her perfume. She had spent two hours grooming herself, and she had eaten only a piece of toast with applesauce and a cup of coffee. She was on edge, but not apprehensive.
The new little record shop had been the Floral Arts Gift Shop. Carpenters were working busily in the newly decorated store, installing overhead recessed lighting and laying carpets. An electrician had parked his truck and was lugging phonographs inside. Cartons of records were piled everywhere; in the rear a pair of workmen were tacking squares of soundproofing to the ceiling of the half-completed booths. The work in progress was directed by a middle-aged man in a tweed suit.
She crossed the street and walked slowly back, trying to make out the figure that loomed over the carpenters. Waving a silverhandled stick, the man paced back and forth, giving instructions, laying down the law. He walked as if the ground came into existence at his feet. He was creating the store from the puddle of fabrics, boards, wiring, tiles. It was interesting to see this big man building. Was he Joseph R. Schilling? She gave up her prowling and approached the store. It was not yet nine.
Passing through the entrance was a sudden leaving of the emptiness of the street; she found herself in the midst of activity. Large and important objects had been collected here; she felt the tightness, the reassuring pressure that meant so much to her. While she was inspecting a newly built counter, the tweed-suited man glanced up and saw her.
"Are you Mr. Schilling?" she asked, a little awed. "That's right."
All around them carpenters were hammering; it was noisier than California Readymade. She took a deep, pleased breath of the smell of sawdust, the stiff unfolding of new carpets. "I want to talk to you," she said. Her wonder grew. "Is this your store? What's all the glass for?" Workmen were carrying panes to the rear.
"For record booths," he answered. "Come in the office. Where we can talk better."
Reluctantly, she forgot the work in progress and trailed after him, down a hall past a flight of basement steps and into a side room. He closed the door and turned to face her.
...
It had been Joseph Schilling's first impulse to send the girl off. Obviously she was too young, not more than twenty. But he was intrigued. The girl was unusually attractive.
What he saw was a small, rather bony girl, with brown hair and pale, almost straw-colored eyes. Her neck fascinated him. It was long and smooth, a Modigliani neck. Her ears were tiny and did not flare in the slightest. She wore gold hooped earrings. Her skin was fair and unblemished and faintly tanned. There was no emphasis of sexuality; her body was not overly developed and there was an ascetic quality to her, a strictness of line that was refreshing and unusual.
"You're looking for a job?" he asked. "How old are you?"
"Twenty," she answered.
Schilling rubbed his ear and pondered. "What sort of experience have you had?"
"I worked eight months for a finance company as a receptionist, so I'm used to meeting the public. And then I worked over a year taking dictation. I'm a trained typist."
"That's of no value to me."
"Don't be silly. Is your business only going to be on a cash basis? You're not going to open charge accounts?"
"My bookkeeping will be done from outside," he said. "Is this your idea of the way to ask for a job?"
"I'm not asking for a job. I'm looking for a job."
Schilling reflected, but the distinction was lost on him. "What do you know about music?"
"I know everything there is to know."
"You mean popular music. What would you say if I asked you who Dietrich Buxtehude was? Do you recognize the name?"
"No," she said simply.
"Then you don't know anything about music. You're wasting my time. All you know is the Top Ten tunes."
"You're not going to be able to sell hit tunes," the girl said. "Not in this town."
Surprised, Schilling said: "Why not?"
"Hank is one of the smartest pop buyers in the business. People come down here from San Francisco, looking for tunes backordered all the way to L.A."
"And they find them?"
"Most of the time. Nobody can catch them all."
"How do you know so much about the record business?"
For an instant the girl smiled. "Do you think I know a lot about the record business?"
"You act as if you do. You pretend you do."
"I used to go with a boy who did Hank's stock work. And I like folk music and bop."
Stepping to the back of the office, Schilling got out a cigar, cut off the end, and lit up.
"What's the matter?" the girl asked.
"I'm not sure how good you'd be behind a counter. You'd try to tell people what they ought to like."
"Would I?" The girl reflected and then shrugged her shoulders. "Well, it's up to them. I could help them. Sometimes they want help."
"What's your name?"
"Mary Anne Reynolds."
He liked the sound of it. "I'm Joseph Schilling."
The girl nodded. "That's what I thought."
"The ad," he said, "gave only a phone number. But you found your way here. Had you noticed my store?"
"Yes," she said. There was tension surrounding her. He understood that this was of great importance.
"You were born here?" he asked. "It's a nice town; I like it. Of course, it's not large. It's not active."
"It's dead." Her face lifted, and he was confronted with her judgment. "Be realistic."
"Well," he said, "maybe it's dead to you; you're tired of it."
"I'm not tired of it. I just don't believe in it."
"There's a lot here to believe in; go sit in the park."
"And do what?"
"And listen!" he said with vigor. "Come out and hear ... it's all around you. Sights to see, sounds, rich smells."
"What do you pay a month?" she asked.
"Two-fifty to start." Now he was annoyed. "Back to the practical?" It didn't fit his impression of her, and he thought now that it wasn't really practical: she was trying to find a reference point. Somehow he had upset her. "That's for a five-day week. It isn't bad."
"In California a woman can't work more than a five-day week. What about later? What does the salary go up to?"
"Two-seventy-five. If things work out."
"And if they don't? I have a pretty good job right now."
Schilling paced around the office, smoking and trying to recall when and if a situation of this sort had come up before. He was disturbed ... the girl's intensity affected him. But he was too old to treat the world as ominous, and he enjoyed too many small things. He liked to eat good food; he loved music and beauty and-if it was really funny-a dirty joke. It pleased him to be alive, and this girl saw life as a threat. But his interest in her had grown.
She might well be the girl he wanted. She was alert; she would be an efficient worker. And she was pretty; if he could get her to relax she would freshen up the store.
"You'd like to work in a record store?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "It would be interesting."
"By fall you'd know the ropes." He could see that she learned rapidly. "We might work out a trial basis. I'd have to see ... after all, you're the first girl I've talked to." From the hall came the jangle of the phone, and he smiled. "That must be another job applicant."
The girl said nothing. But she seemed even more absorbed in her worry; she was like certain little concerned animals he had seen, those that huddled silently for hours.
"I tell you what," Schilling said, and even in his own ears his voice sounded rough and clumsy. "Let's go across the street and get something to eat. I haven't had breakfast. Is that restaurant all right?"
"The Blue Lamb?" Mary Anne moved to the door. "All right, I suppose. Expensive. I don't know if they're open this early."
"We'll see," Schilling declared, following her up the hall. A light-headedness seized him, a sense of adventure. "If not, then we can go somewhere else. I can't hire you without knowing more about you."
In the main part of the store the carpenters were hammering and pounding above the jangle of the phone. The electrician, surrounded by turntables and speaker systems, was trying vainly to hear the response of his amplifiers. Schilling caught up with the girl and took hold of her arm.
"Be careful," he warned her genially. "Watch out for that tangle of phono lead."
Her arm was firm within his fingers. He was conscious of her clothing, the dry rustling of the green knit suit. Walking beside her, he could catch the faint edge of her perfume. She was really surprisingly small. She plodded along, eyes on the floor; all the way to the street she failed to speak. He could tell she was deep in thought.
When they had reached the sidewalk, the girl halted. Awkwardly, Schilling released her arm. "Well?" he asked, as they faced each other in the bright morning glare. The sunlight smelled of moisture and freshness; he took a deep breath of it and found it better than cigar smoke. "What do you think? How will it look?"
"It's a nice little store."
"You think it'll be a financial success?" Schilling stepped agilely aside for workmen carrying in a cash register and carton of paper tapes.
"Probably."
Schilling hesitated. Was he making a mistake? Once he spoke it would be too late to back out. But he didn't want to back out. "The job is yours," he said.
After a moment Mary Anne said: "No, thanks."
"What?" He was shocked. "What's that? What do you mean?"
Without a word, the girl started off down the sidewalk. For an interval Schilling remained inert; then, tossing his cigar into the gutter, he hurried after her. "What is it?" he demanded, barring her way. "What's wrong?" Passersby gazed at them with interest; ignoring them, he caught hold of the girl's arm. "Don't you want the job!"
"No," she said defiantly. "Let go of my arm or I'll call a cop and have you arrested."
Schilling released her and the girl stepped back.
"What is it?" he begged.
"I don't want to work for you. When you touched me, I could tell." Her voice trailed off. "The store's lovely. I'm sorry-it started out fine. You shouldn't have touched me."
And then she was gone. Schilling found himself standing alone; she had slipped off into the stream of early-morning shoppers.
He made his way back into the store. The carpenters were banging mightily. The telephone shrilled. During his absence Max had appeared with a ham sandwich and a pasteboard carton of coffee (one lump of sugar).
"Here it is," Max said. "Your breakfast."
"Keep it!" Schilling retorted with fury.
Max blinked. "What's bothering you?"
Schilling fished in his coat pocket for a fresh cigar. His hands, he discovered, were shaking.