Author's note:
This is an account of one woman's journey through difficult love
. Be warned... although there are some sexual events throughout the story, it is
NOT
riddled with sex.
If that is what you are looking for please don't waste your time reading this. All characters involved in a sexual activity are 18 years and older. This is a work of fiction and any similarities to real persons are purely coincidental.
Margret Ford,
Martinsville, West Virginia, January 1948
Willoughby Holler, Tennessee was founded by my daddy's uncle's great-granddaddy. But that distinction did nothing for our standing in the community. We struggled to survive along with everyone else. I am one of three children born to Ian and Eileen Ford. I've an older brother, Francis, and a twin sister who died at birth.
Willoughby Holler has always struggled to exist, but the black blizzards of the 1930's were the Holler's and my family's undoing. The first few years were of unbearable hardships. My father and brother worked unceasingly in an attempt to keep the family farm going, always praying, always hoping for rain to no avail.
We lost them both to dust pneumonia for their efforts. After the men died, my mother couldn't run the place by herself so she was relieved when the bank took the matter out of her hands by foreclosing on our farm. It was all the incentive she needed to let go of my father's barren legacy and flee Willoughby Holler for good.
We packed up and moved Martinsville, West Virginia to live with her mother. Life was better here, but still very hard. Mother's health was never right after the living through those storms, and she worked herself to an early death taking care of me. I always feel guilty when I think of it, but I was so young then and could offer little in the way of helping her.
She died when I was ten, leaving me to my elderly grandmother to raise me. Grandma was a kind and gentle woman who raised me with care. She passed on two months ago, and now I am alone.
New York City, May 1948
New York was not the city many claimed it to be. Fame, fortune and bright hopes realized within minutes of your arrival, was not a given. The "big apple" I'd been eager to take a bite out was like dust in my mouth. It's a hot, smelly, unfeeling city, with too many people, and too little opportunity for employment now that the war has ended and the soldiers have returned to the city's work force. My high hopes are crushed on a daily basis.
I left Martinsburg, with expectations of quick and easy success. But I was young and naïve, and not prepared for the largest city in America. The pleasant wholesome little town of Martinsville hadn't quite prepared me for a place like this.
I have never met so many rude, unfriendly people in all my life. On more than one occasion, I've had to fend off smartly dressed men looking for a goodtime girl to spend a few hours with them. This place I had come to realize my aspirations was one of immorality and desperation, bursting with worn-out, selfish people, enviously holding fast to whatever they owned, giving no quarter to those who had nothing.
Broadway lights lose their sparkle once the veracity of big city life smacks you full in the face—as I had come to realize once my daily routine began to take its toll. I've worn a hole in the sole of my only pair of pumps—grandma saved up special to buy them for me and I adored them—as I pounded the pavement looking for work. I've been lost more times than not, and have sought the help of these very busy people, with little success. Oh, sure, I got the occasional point in the right direction, but, as a whole, I've trudged through this cement jungle unaided.
Although my enthusiasm has somewhat dimmed, I still hung on the hope of becoming a secretary to a rich bachelor, marrying him and settling down with two kids (a boy and a girl is preferable) and a dog—I do intend to nix the white picket fence; I'll have a mansion, instead, with a huge kidney shaped swimming pool, sculptured lawns and heavy wrought iron gates surrounding my lair... Hey, a girl can dream, can't she?
I looked up at the tall, tall building that is my final destination for the day, and sighed. If I don't get this position, I may have to sell my mother's wedding ring. I feel shamed just thinking about it. It was the only thing I owned of hers that was worth any monetary value, and I'd hoped to keep it with me forever. I had to land this job. I just had to.
I've been renting at Mrs. Tatterly's Boardinghouse for Young Ladies, a huge brownstone in Manhattan. It's a goodish sort of place. The beds were clean and somewhat comfortable—though you had to share a room with a stranger. I got lucky with mine; Patty Harry is a real peach of a roommate.
Mrs. Tatterly's establishment touted a real shower and an inside toilet—a real luxury for one whose family could not afford to make the change and was forced to make numerous trips to the outhouse. She also provides a light breakfast of toasted bread and tea every morning and a hot supper served promptly at seven o'clock for those of us who show up on time—stragglers miss out—and, although the fare is usually accompanies some type of heavy gravy. But it's sustaining, it keeps the hunger pangs away.
I was fortunate to find a place for the low price of twenty dollars a month. But after two months of joblessness, I am fast running out of money. I'm afraid I'll be turned out on the streets if I don't find work quickly. You see Mrs. Tatterly—though an exemplary landlady—does not have a heart of gold. She will swiftly and efficiently rid her home of those who do not, or cannot, pay her on time. Unfortunately, I may be one of them if I don't land a job soon.
I entered the building and was instantly relieved and surprised by the cool interior. The Gleam On soap powder building is one of the few air conditioned buildings in the city. I crossed the huge lobby to take the elevator to the 17
th
floor.
I was talking to a waitress at Waldworth's five-and-dime, and she told me Gleam on were looking for a secretary. I practically ran over here in order to be the first in line for the position.
I can't thank my grandmother enough for encouraging me to take those typing classes because it's the only skill I have to support myself. While I waited in the elevator, I quickly ran a comb threw my hair, powdered my nose, and reapplied my lipstick. I was hot and frazzled, but with the sweat wiped from my brow and nose and my lips refreshed, I hoped I'd appear presentable to my possible employer. The elevator dinged open unexpectedly. I smoothed my dress, took a deep calming breath and I stepped out—and was, once again, grateful for the coolness of the air.
A brunette sat behind a heavy wooden desk typing away on a Smith Corona. She looked up as I approached her desk, and I was struck by her absolute beauty.
"Hello, I'm Margret Ford. I've come to fill the secretarial position." I said with a confidence I didn't feel.
She smiled, a truly lovely smile, and pointed to a chair near the far wall, "Hello, Margret, take a seat. Mr. Ellison will see you shortly."
"Thank you," I said, returning her smile. I took the seat she indicated, and then settled down to wait. I was very impressed with the office. There was another wooden desk on the opposite side of the room. A Royal Wide carriage typewriter sat stately and imposing on its polished top, waiting for a user. It looked a monster compared to the one stunning brunette was using.
The wooden floor was nearly invisible under the huge Samarkand rug. The wall war dark paneled with beautiful landscapes dotted about. It was a welcoming atmosphere, despite the austere surroundings. I've no doubt I'd like working here. I hoped I get the chance to find out.
The brunette's intercom buzzed, she smiled at me and then went into the office on her right, closing the door behind her. After a few minutes, she reentered. "Miss Ford, Mr. Ellison will see you now." She said, giving me an encouraging smile.
"Thank you," I said, smiling in return. But as I moved past her into his office, my knees shook. I took a deep breath to study my nerves. "Hello..." I said as I approached his desk. I froze in mid stride, practically tripping my own two feet. I normal did not believe in love at first sight—I thought it juvenile to accept such foolishness—but I am a believer now. How my heart did thump strongly in my chest the second my eyes fell upon him.
