their table every Friday night. Tired, yet still smiling after a long day on his feet, the head of the Monaghan clan planted a hearty kiss on her mother’s cheek before going in search of the evening paper.
Reamonn Monaghan put his all into running Monaghan’s Market. Every ounce of his sweat went into stocking those shelves. Moira regarded her surroundings. Their upstairs apartment was small and drafty, but clean. Ever mindful of the ways of a successful greengrocer, his profits were more than enough to keep food on the table.
“Remember the days when Alma and Aidan ate at the table with us?” Moira accepted the steaming dishes from her mother and arranged them on the table.
“’deed I do. Guess they’re busy with their own in Brooklyn. Never catch me livin’ there. Too far away. Might as well live on the other side of the world.”
Moira missed her older sister Alma and brother Aidan. Her gut burned. She wouldn’t become an Old Maid sitting around Sullivan Street and waiting for someone to notice her half-decent looks. No. Not if she could help it.
Suppertime proved the same as always. Some conversation, but mostly mouths filled with food. Moira smeared the mashed potatoes around her plate. Someday she’d have her own dress shop and a husband to share her bed.
“Are you having sweets with us tonight?” Nola Monaghan pushed a section of graying hair from her face.
Sweets? How could she concentrate on custard when her position at The Continental Club called?
“No.” She rose and kissed her parents goodnight. “My duty isn’t yet done. Don’t wait up.”
“Nasty grippe going around. I hope Janet’s mending fine.” Her mother brandished the serving spoon, slicing the air around her with it as she spoke. “Even Mrs. Mueller came down ill the other day. I say the Devil’s set up shop on Sullivan Street and there’s no getting rid of him.”
If no other explanation existed, her mother always blamed everything that went wrong on the Devil. Last week, she’d accused Satan of snapping the thread in her needle several times during one mending session. Moira shook her head. Dear Mother. She works so hard and takes such pride in those mending jobs. Countless tenants in their block counted on her to stitch their threadbare clothes, as money to buy new ones was scarce.
Moira went upstairs and changed. Behind her bulky wool coat she wore the red indiscretion. Carefully, she made her way to the front door and slipped out. So far, so good.
Outside, five o’clock shadows hung heavy over the street. Silent and secretive. Most people who lived on Sullivan Street preferred it that way. Better no one passed judgment on something better left unmentioned.
* * * *
Moira blinked in discomfort at the lash pearls she’d applied. Last week, Janet showed her how to place melted wax on the ends of her lashes with one of her mother’s straight pins. So glamorous. If only she could keep them on for the whole weekend.
Already at the corner of Houston and Sullivan, she quickened her pace. Only one more turn of the corner remained between her and McDougal Street. There she’d find the most swell speakeasy in all of Manhattan, at least according to Janet.
Wind whipped against Moira’s body and face, and she struggled to keep her bearings. Snowflakes floated from the sky and shimmered in the glow of the streetlamps. Slowly, they fell to the ground. Something clean on the otherwise dirty sidewalks. Halfway down the block, she noticed a wrought iron railing. Hurry . Get there before you freeze .
She rushed ahead and soon reached a set of narrow steps leading below street level. No lettering adorned the front entrance or announced the establishment’s name. Secrecy? For some reason, this club wanted it that way.
She pursed her cracked lips. Why had she applied that bold persimmon lipstick? It always irritated her mouth. A faint cherry fragrance lingered on her lips. She sported a cupid pout, just like Clara. All men