The Roaring Days of Zora Lily

by Noelle Salazar

Genres: Historical Fiction; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

“Unforgettable… Noelle Salazar masterfully weaves a story of female strength and friendship, with an emotionally resonant epic love story… I could not put this book down!” —Jillian Cantor, USA TODAY bestselling author of Beautiful Little Fools, on The Flight Girls


In this dazzling new novel, the discovery of a hidden label on a famous gown unearths the story of a talented young seamstress and her journey from the smoke-filled speakeasies of Jazz Age Seattle to the costume houses of Hollywood.

2023, The Smithsonian's National Museum of American History: A costume conservator is preparing an exhibition featuring movie costumes from the 1920s to present day. As she gingerly places a gown once worn by Greta Garbo on a mannequin, she discovers another name hidden beneath the designer's label, leaving her to wonder—who is Zora Lily?

1924, Seattle: Poverty-stricken Zora Hough spends her days looking after her younger siblings while sewing up holes and fixing hems for clients to bring in extra money, working her fingers to the bone just to survive. But at night, as she lies in the bed she shares with one of her three sisters, she secretly dreams of becoming a designer like Coco Chanel and Jeanne Lanvin.

When her best friend gets a job dancing in a club downtown, Zora is lured in by her stories of music, glittering dresses and boys. She follows her friend to the underground speakeasies that are at once exciting and frightening—with smoke hanging in the air, alcohol flowing despite Prohibition, couples dancing in a way that makes Zora blush and a handsome businessman named Harley. It’s a world she has only ever imagined, and one with connections that could lead her to the life she's always dreamed of. But as Zora's ambition is challenged by tragedy and duty to her family, she'll learn that dreams come with a cost. 

Release date: October 3, 2023

Publisher: MIRA Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

Washington, DC, 2023

The fluorescent lights blinked on in a domino effect, one after the other, a faint buzzing sound filling the room as I stood squinting in the unnatural light.

I inhaled, taking in my small slice of heaven within the storied walls of the Smithsonian National Museum of American History. The long room with its high ceiling, soothing taupe walls, and wood floors—weathered in spots from years of conservators standing and pacing as they labored over the works of great minds—brought a sense of peace as soon as I stepped inside.

The museum had been my happy place since I was a little girl, when my mother would walk with me from our baby blue–painted row house on Capitol Hill, her slender fingers wrapped around my pudgy ones. We'd wander past sprawling parks, melancholy monuments documenting history, to the austere but magical facade housing wonders my six-year-old eyes could barely comprehend. By the age of eight I knew all the regular exhibits like the back of my hand, and waited anxiously for the monthly newsletter that arrived in our mailbox, telling us what traveling exhibits we could expect next. It was one such exhibit, a gallery of gowns worn by British royalty, that had burrowed itself inside me in such a way that a dream was born.

"I'm going to work here one day," I'd told my mother, pushing back a strand of dirty-blond hair as I stared up at a jewel-colored gown once worn by Queen Elizabeth the Second.

I was twelve.

I wanted to exist within these walls. It was my church, and I believed in its teachings wholeheartedly. I had drunk the water. Read the great books. And prayed to the gods of knowledge and creativity. I wanted to be part of whatever it took to bring history to life for others. And for the past nine years...that's exactly what I'd done.

I stared at the scene sprawled out before me.

"Sanctuary," I whispered, tucking a blond-highlighted strand of hair behind my ear.

Gleaming table after gleaming table sat covered in silk, satin, lace, and velvet. Gowns and dresses and blouses previously only seen on movie screens and in photographs now lay delicately in wait of tending to, their sparkle and sinew in contrast to the stark lights and tepid surroundings. Mannequins, my constant companions, stood at the ready, waiting for their moment.

Thread in every color imaginable, like a rainbow of rotund spool soldiers on a rolling rack, waited to be chosen. Needles in pincushions, strips of bias tape, shimmering appliqués, ribbons, seam rippers, clear drawers filled with buttons and clasps and snaps, and boxes upon boxes of straight pins, their colorful heads a happy bouquet of tiny plastic globes, were scattered across every surface, peeking from where they'd fallen to the floor, rolled beneath furniture, and stuck—I bent to pull a pink-headed pin from the rug beneath my feet—in a variety of inconvenient places.

The door clicked open behind me and I smiled.

"Good morning, Sylvia," a familiar voice said.

"Morning, Lu," I said to the one member of my team who, like me, couldn't wait to get to work.

Every day, my friend and fellow fashion-obsessed cohort, Lu Huang, and I arrived within minutes of one another, and a full half hour before anyone else. Working as conservators for the museum was a coveted get for us. A dream job that every morning caused us to rush from our respective homes, grabbing an insufficient breakfast on our way out the door, and wondering hours later why we were so hungry. We lost track of time constantly, surviving on coffee and bags of chips from the vending machine, and leaving friends and family waiting on us as we turned up late to holiday parties, dinners, and events we'd implored others to attend but couldn't possibly get to on time, and having forgotten to blend the concealer we'd hurriedly dotted on in the train, with paint under our nails and bits of thread or glue on our jacket cuffs.

In Lu I'd found not only the perfect work companion, but a kindred spirit. Over the nine years we'd worked together, we'd enjoyed laughing over our shared love of no-nonsense ponytails, and waxing poetic about old films and vintage fashion. We sat in her living room or mine, rewatching the movies that had shaped us and sharing stories of our schoolgirl walls plastered with images of iconic women of the silver screen, while our schoolmates favored posters of half-clothed men. So, when the idea for the newest exhibit started floating around our superiors' offices upstairs, we'd spent many a night poring over which films we'd choose if asked, and then deliberated, scrapped, and chose again until we had the perfect array.

Out of curiosity, we began to inquire with movie studios about the costumes we'd be interested in displaying, running into new obstacles with each call we made. Several times we chose a beloved film only to find half the costumes had been lost in a fire, were part of a decades-long legal battle, or were just plain lost—a travesty over which we consoled ourselves with a huge plate of nachos and a pitcher of margaritas. Eventually, the decisions about which movies to include boiled down to three simple things: Where were the costumes we'd need? Would they be available to us for the time required? And what kind of shape were they in?

Once we'd gotten the green light that the exhibit was on, we finalized our list, made the calls, gathered confirmations, and began the design for the wing the costumes would be shown in. And then we waited, barely able to contain ourselves as one by one the garments that would be featured in The Hollywood Glamour Exhibition arrived.

We chose two movies per decade, going back one hundred years to the 1920s. Every piece that had been worn by the female lead was sent to us from studios, museums, or estates. Once in our possession, my job as costume curator, along with my staff of seven, was to remove each gown or outfit from its protective garment bags or boxes, and go over it with a fine-tooth comb, looking for tears, stains, missing buttons, and the like. We'd been working for months. Some of the more intricate gowns needed extensive rebeading or sequin replacement, and many of the older pieces needing patching inside to hold the outside fabric together. In two cases we'd had to sew exact replicas of the linings, and then carefully fit them inside the original, giving it something to cling to, extending its life.

A pantsuit from the forties had lost an outside pocket and matching the fabric had been hell. The brim of an iconic straw hat that belonged to another outfit had been scorched by a cigarette and needed to be patched. Each garment presented its own set of unique problems, and we were giddy as we worked to solve each puzzle.

With our intention for each item to be viewed from all sides, it was crucial they looked as flawless as possible. Thankfully, my team were experts in their field, and excited at the opportunity to handle costumes worn by some of the most famous women in film history.

"Can't believe we're down to the final film," Lu said, running a finger over a strip of fringe hanging from a black evening gown. "I think this batch is my favorite."

I nodded, taking in the room of costumes from the 1928 film The Star. Each piece had been worn by the iconic Greta Garbo and was the epitome of elegance and class. And a notable diversion from the designer's usual style.

"It's so odd Cleménte changed her MO for this one film," I said, tilting my head as I took in the distinct wide neckline featured in each of the eight pieces. Even a blouse and jacket had been designed to show off the actress's collarbones. The pieces were alluring, but Cleménte had always been known for a more modest style.

Michele Cleménte had been a well-known designer in the '20s and '30s, her signature style demure, with higher necklines and longer hems. But for this movie, she'd completely diverged.

 

"It is strange," Lu said, frowning. "The studio must've wanted something exact."

"Then why hire her?" I asked. "Not that she didn't do a lovely job. The clothing is exquisite. I'd wear them all now."

"And look fab doing it."

I felt myself blush with pleasure at the compliment. Being tall and willowy had its advantages. Unfortunately for me, I had neither the opportunity nor the bank account to wear clothes as fine as the ones before us.

"Thanks, Lu," I said, bending to peer closer at the large white beaded star on the white satin gown that was to be the centerpiece for the entire show.

Aside from the star, the rest of the fabric had been left unadorned, letting the beaded element shine before one's eye went to the skirt, which fell in soft overlapping layers to the floor. It was a stunning piece of art. But a confusing one. Because it had no resemblance to any piece ever sewn before by Cleménte. At least not any piece I'd seen in my years of studying the different famous designers. It didn't have her specific way of hand sewing or her distinctive technique of tying off a knot, or even her tendency toward geometric shapes. But it was the neckline that really threw me off. Cleménte had preferred to leave a lot to the imagination. It was her calling card during a time when everyone else was showing more skin. And yet for these, she'd completely gone off-script.

The rest of the crew arrived at nine on the dot and the quiet of the room rose to a dull roar as individual desk lights were turned on, loupes donned to scrutinize the tiniest details, and we all began to sew, glue, and chat our way through the day.

"Syl?"

I glanced up and winced as my back protested from having been bent over a table for the past hour. Lu stood, her coat over her arm, by the door. Everyone else had vanished.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Nearly seven."

"Shit. How does that always happen?" I pulled the loupes from my head.

"You happen to be in love with a dress," Lu said. "That's how."

"Story of my life."

"Explains so much."

"Does it?"

"I mean, it definitely explains why you haven't had a date with a real live human in a while. Only—" She gestured to the mannequin beside me.

We laughed. She wasn't wrong.

Lu was the only person who truly understood me. The only person besides my sister who I'd ever allowed to see inside my guest room closet where dozens of scavenged vintage dresses, trousers, jackets, and hats hung, waiting to be delicately cared for like the ones I lovingly handled at work.

"You gonna stay?" Lu asked, watching me as I looked back at the dress spread out before me.

I rubbed my eyes and stared at the tiny white beads I'd been replacing. We'd named the dress The Diaphanous Star, and I'd been carefully sewing on one bead at a time for the past two hours. It was a delicate task as the fabric they clung to was nearly one hundred years old. I had to work slowly and thoughtfully to keep from shredding it.

"Yeah," I said, rotating my head. "I want to get this star done. How'd you do today?"

I glanced over at the black evening gown she was working on.

"I'm close," she said. "You can barely see the snag in the back now, and I should be able to replace the bit of fringe that's missing tomorrow."

"Perfect," I said, reaching over to wake my laptop and clicking on the calendar. "We are ahead of schedule, which bodes well should we have any catastrophes."

Lu knocked a small wooden box holding scissors inside it.

"Don't jinx us," she said and then waved. "See you B and E."

"See you B and E," I said.

B and E. Bright and early. We'd made it up one day after the youngest woman in our group rattled off a bunch of acronyms as if the rest of us should know what they mean. We used it constantly. She didn't think it was amusing. This of course made it that much funnier.

 

I pulled my loupes back down and resumed placing the beads that formed the shimmering star. Thirty minutes later I sat up, set the magnifying glasses on the table, and arched my back in a well-deserved stretch.

"Okay, you," I said to the dress. "Time to get you on a mannequin."

Sliding my arms beneath the gown, I lifted it carefully and carried it to the far end of the table where a mannequin with roughly Greta Garbo's 1927 torso measurements stood in wait, minus its arms which would be attached once I got the dress on it.

Unfortunately, the wide neckline made it hard to secure.

"You're pretty," I muttered, trying to keep the dress from slipping to the floor while I reached for one of the arms. "But a pain in my ass."

I clicked an arm into place, moving the capped sleeve over the seam where the appendage attached to the shoulder, and making sure the hand was resting just right on the mannequin's hip. Satisfied, I reached for the other arm and did the same on the other side.

"Not bad, headless Garbo," I said, straightening the gown and smiling at the beaded star glimmering under the lights.

I grabbed my notepad and made my way around the dress, writing down problems that still needed to be addressed. Loose threads, the unraveling second tier of the skirt, and a bit of fabric that looked like it had rubbed against something and was scuffed. There was a stain on the hem in back, and one of the capped sleeves sagged, leading me to investigate and find a spot inside where the elastic was stretched out of shape.

My eyes moved along every inch of fabric, bead, and thread, my fingers scribbling notes as I took in what was easier to see with the dress hanging rather than sprawled on a tabletop. As I scrutinized the neckline in back, I noticed the tag was exposed and reached up to tuck it in. But as I pulled the material back, the tag fluttered to the floor.

With a sigh, I bent to pick it up. I could leave the fix until morning, but as I had nothing but an empty apartment waiting for me, I began the task of detaching the arms of the mannequin and sliding the dress back off and onto the table.

"Always something with you ladies," I said, grabbing a needle and thread. "Can't complain, I guess. Hottest date I've had in a while."

But as I turned my attention to the spot the tag had fallen from, I frowned and pulled the dress closer, peering at a small, elegant stitch no longer than the length of the tag that had covered it.

"Is that..."

I grabbed my loupes and looked again, the stitching now magnified and leaving zero doubt that beneath the tag, in white thread and a beautiful freehand stitch, was a name—and it wasn't Cleménte's.

Sitting back, I removed my glasses and stared at the gorgeous dress with its beautiful wide neckline and capped sleeves, the beaded star, the tiered skirt that was so unlike Cleménte in style, and wondered aloud to the empty room—

"Who the hell is Zora Lily?"

2

Seattle. 1924

The slender gray thread slid snakelike across the back of my hand as I pushed the needle through the delicate remnants of fabric surrounding a tear I'd stitched only last week.

"Damn," I whispered as several more strands of the shredded material unraveled.

"Language," my mother muttered beside me, her own sewing brisk, almost savage as she stabbed her needle in and out of a seam.

I smelled the onion on her breath from the potato soup we'd eaten for lunch as she grumbled.

"It's not a ball gown, Zora. Work faster," she said as she moved to her old sewing machine to finish the piece she was working on. "You have more pressing matters to tend to."

But I'd promised my youngest sister, Eva, I'd stitch a heart-shaped patch this time to cover the worn knee. And I'd found the perfect bit of pink material in our scrap basket to do it. She didn't ask for much, and it was such a little thing to make her happy. Besides, a promise was a promise, as she'd reminded me, her big blue eyes wide with hope. It had nearly broken my heart. It seemed unfair a five-year-old should know so early in life to keep her expectations low. But such was life when you were born into poverty, your father was the town drunk, and all your clothes were threadbare hand-me-downs from your six older siblings, held together by patches. You learn quick and early to keep your sights low and your needs nonexistent.

"I'm nearly finished, Mama," I said, glancing at a gown hanging from a rack by the window. "I'll get to Mrs. Johnson's dress next."

I was excited to get my hands on the beautiful garment that looked so out of place in our rundown little house. It beckoned to me as the sunlight shifted through the window, the shimmering material undulating in between the shadows.

It had been purchased abroad and damaged on the trip home to Seattle. Told by the two well-known dressmakers in the city that the wait time would be at least a month, Mrs. Johnson had sought desperately for someone skilled enough to not only fix the torn sleeve and beading, but who could let out the cinched waist a touch to reflect the new, looser styles women were wearing. Her search led her to our door...and to me.

"You're Zora Hough?" she'd asked, barely able to disguise her disdain as she'd looked past me into the home where my two younger siblings were fighting over a headless doll and my father was stumbling through, his button-down shirt hanging crooked on his skin-and-bones frame while barely concealing his bloated belly.

"I am," I'd said, trying to block the scene behind me with my slight build as I frowned back at the stranger standing on our front porch wearing an expensive coat with a fur collar. Had she not known my name, I'd have reckoned she'd knocked on our door by mistake. "Can I help you?"

"I need a dress fixed. I took it downtown of course," she said, pressing her hand to the large pearls at her throat. Behind her, parked in front of our house, was a motorcar, the driver standing by in case I accosted his boss. "But they're booked for weeks. I need this done by next Saturday for a benefit. When I asked around, your name was at the tip of everyone's tongue. It's a complicated gown though." Again her eyes flicked past me, then down the plain blue frock I wore. "Are you sure you're...equipped for such work?"

"May I see the garment?" I asked.

It was a pale green, like the beginning of spring before sun and soil had mixed to give a plant's leaves its burst of color. It shimmered in the afternoon light, the ivory beads across the neckline and swaying from the shoulders sparking like tiny fireworks.

I noticed right away the ripped sleeve and beading that needed tending to, and nodded, refraining from touching the dress in case she should think my hands as dirty as she obviously viewed my house.

"The sleeve and beads are an easy fix," I'd said.

"I—" She'd frowned. "You're sure? The fabric is very delicate. You'd need to take your time so as not to tear it."

"I'm sure."

"Oh." Her dark eyes blinked several times and then she added, "Well, I was also hoping you could fix the waist."

She'd described what she wanted and I'd nodded and asked if I might take a closer look, holding up my hands to show her they were clean. At her nod, I took the hanger and held the dress up, turning it slowly, eyeing the cinched middle, and then handing it back.

"I can do what you want, but because the fabric is so fine, tiny holes will be left from the threads I cut. Others might not notice, but I can tell you have a keen eye and wouldn't miss them. If you'd like, I could remove the fourth tier of beads from either shoulder and scatter them, making a sort of constellation of camouflage."

She pursed her thin lips as she considered the idea, and then stretched them into a grin.

"I've been told by several women you are a magician with a needle," she said. "Do you really think it will work?"

"I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't," I said.

I'd fixed the torn sleeve and removed the tiers of beads that same evening. As soon as the heart patch was attached to the knee of Eva's trousers, I'd pull the stitches from the gown's waist. The entire job would be done a week before Mrs. Johnson needed it.

I slid my needle through the last stitch of Eva's patch and then jumped at the sound of someone pounding on the front door, narrowly avoiding piercing my skin. Mama wasn't as lucky.

"Dammit!" she said, the needle on the machine speeding up for a moment as her foot slammed on the pedal in surprise.

"Language, Mama," I said as I smiled and rose to answer the door, dodging her glare.

I stepped over the metal toy truck parked beside my chair, around the legs of my youngest brother, Harrison, who was in deep concentration trying to reattach the head he'd pulled off Eva's doll again the day before, which had been mine many years before, and jumped over a ball as it rolled across the tiny living space.

I reached the front door and pulled it open just in time to avoid the next barrage of knocking.

"I thought you weren't never gonna open up!"

I grinned into the anxious round face of my best friend, the ends of her newly bobbed blond hair swinging from beneath the beige linen cloche with off-white fabric flowers I'd made her for her last birthday.

"Sorry," I said, leaning on the door frame. "I was sewing."

She feigned surprise, pressing her hand to her open mouth, and I rolled my eyes.

"You on your way to work?" I asked.

"In this?" She waved a hand over the sleeveless peach frock with eyelet detailing along the hemline. "Heavens no. This is a daytime dress, Z."

I glanced down with bemusement at my own outdated dress with its built-in corset. Oh, the luxury of having dresses for different times of day.

Rose peeked past me into the house.

"Hi, Mrs. Hough," she singsonged, giving my mother a furtive wave before pulling me out onto the front porch.

"I'll be right back," I said over my shoulder.

"Zora," Mama warned.

"I'll only be a minute, Mama."

I closed the door and followed Rose to the street, away from the thin walls of our home, and out of my mother's earshot.

"Come tonight," Rose pleaded.

"I can't." I shook my head and laughed. I knew this was what she'd come for. Ever since she'd gotten a job dancing in one of the clubs downtown, she'd become relentless in trying to get me to come out.

It wasn't that I didn't want to. I did. Terribly. My heart ached with longing to see the lights of the city, hear the jazz music with the horns and bass Rose talked about, and see the clothes. Oh, how I longed to see what people wore out to this secret club she danced in. But my mother's disapproval of anything that involved alcohol or fun, combined with her constant reminder of my responsibilities, made it seem impossible.

"But Ellis is playing. You have to come. You've never heard him. You've never seen or heard any of it! The music...the dancing. The boys... Zora! You need to meet a boy."

I held my finger to my lips and looked back at the house to make sure my mother was still inside.

I'd never really had a boyfriend. When you're the poorest girl in school, no one wants to be your friend, much less your boyfriend. And that had been fine with me. I'd spent much of my school days trying to blend into the background, not wanting to speak up even though I knew the answers because in doing so, every eye would turn toward me and take in the castoff clothing that had been my older brother's, modified with scalloped collars, and a drooping ruffle or two. At the age of twenty-one I'd only ever been kissed twice. Both times by a shabby fella called Gordon. I couldn't say they were kisses to remember. Except for the fact that they'd happened, I probably wouldn't remember them at all.

"Zora," Mama called. Rose pressed her lips together and I turned to see my mother now standing in the doorway of our house, arms crossed over her chest. She gave Rose a brief look before going back inside and closing the door loudly.

Rose, used to my mother, giggled and then turned her pleading blue eyes back to me.

Her face was free of makeup, a rarity these days. I missed her like this. This was the Rose I loved best. The one I met on our first day of fourth grade at Ballard Elementary after her family moved to town. She'd been all gangly arms and legs, her blond hair in two long braids she was constantly twirling, and the boys were constantly pulling on. Even back then she'd been mouthy and obstinate, telling them off and shooing them away. Unlike me, who never said a word out of turn and was a fearful rule follower. If a boy pulled my hair, I didn't say a thing. But when Rose came, that all changed. If she caught them or I told her someone had bothered me, she made sure they heard about it.

Her vibrancy was overshadowing. But I didn't mind. I flourished in the tough and scrawny shadow of Rose Tiller. I followed her everywhere, much to the dismay of my stern mother who would rather I play quietly inside than skip rope outside, noisily counting jumps and giggling when our ropes got tangled.

Our fathers were both loggers back then. Back before my father's accident. Now her dad was the manager at the sawmill, and mine was often found drunk on whatever cheap and illegal booze he could get his hands on while my older brother, Tommy, worked to pay the bills so we could keep our home. But even with Tommy working at the mill, Mama and I had to take in sewing jobs because a family of nine was a lot to keep fed and clothed.

"It's Friday night, Z," Rose said, her rosebud lips forming a pout. It was no wonder she'd always had boys lining up for her. She was what my older brother, Tommy, and his friends called a stunner. "You're twenty-one. She can't make you stay home."

I could count on my fingers and toes the number of times we'd had this argument.

"I know," I said. "But there's a pile of work to get through and some of it is intricate stuff only I can do. Plus, I have nothing to wear to a club. Look at me."

I ran a hand down my drab, colorless frock. I could remember being a young girl and looking up at my mother wearing this exact dress. The fabric then was thick and velvety, but after years of wear and having been patched and sewn time and time again, it was now threadbare and fraying at the hems. I pulled at a stray thread, watching the fabric around it loosen as Rose persisted.

"What about your gray dress?" she asked.

"Rose." I grinned. "From the descriptions you've given me, my gray dress is fine for up here where the only place I go is to the market or the mill. But down there?" I shook my head. "No way."

"First of all, Jackson Street ain't uppity downtown. It's down downtown. Second, you're right. You'll stand out for all the wrong reasons if you wear that." She chewed her full lower lip, turning its natural pink shade a deeper hue. "I really don't understand why you don't sew yourself something. All those scraps have to amount to a dress, don't they?"

"Sure, if I want to wear a patchwork dress. Is that what they're all wearing to the clubs?" I laughed. "Is that what Mrs. Denny and Mrs. Fauntleroy go out to dinner in?"

"Well, no," she said, snickering. "But they might if you made it. It would be a masterpiece. The women would be lining the street to have one made."

"I highly doubt that. Nevertheless, it ain't gonna happen. Mama would never give me the time off to do it. If I've got time to sew for myself, I've got time to work through the pile and make us some money."

"Fine," she said, her eyes skimming up and down my body. "Tell ya what, it'll be a tad big on you since you're so thin, but you can wear that pink dress you fixed up for me. The one with the little ruffle at the hem in back?"

"Rose." I shook my head, my long, dark locks, so utterly out of fashion, swinging across my back.

I wanted to say yes. To throw caution to the wind. To assert myself with my mother and tell her I was going out and she couldn't stop me. At night I sometimes lay in bed beside my next-in-line sister, Sarah, in the bedroom we shared with two of our five siblings, and dreamed of dancing until dawn, my hand in the grip of a handsome young man, while wearing a dress I'd made just for me. Not something that had been handed down or made for someone else and tossed aside.

I had a stash of pictures I'd torn from Rose's mom's old magazines, and ads from the newspaper that I'd drawn over, reimagining hemlines and necklines and fabrics. I drew feathers on hats and bows on the shoes. There were ruffled collars, pleated skirts, and trousers with wide, swinging cuffs.

Beside the drawings were images of Coco Chanel, Clara Bow, and Josephine Baker. Each one's style inspiring something different.

But Mama didn't like the clothes that were popular now and grumbled when we were asked to drop waistlines and raise hems.

"Indecent," she muttered as she sewed. "No corsets. Everything on display. What happened to modesty?"

How Rose thought I'd ever be able to sew something for myself with Mama constantly looking over my shoulder was beyond me. But I knew it wasn't just the style Mama hated, it was the new culture that had come along with it. Bawdy women making their own money and their own decisions, loud music (not that there was any heard in our house), and alcohol, despite Prohibition, that flowed day and night.

It was the alcohol in particular she didn't agree with. Ever since Daddy began stumbling in our door at odd hours after being who knows where, she'd grown increasingly hostile. I couldn't bring myself to tell her I wanted to go out.

"Come on, Z. Please?" Rose was pleading again. "Tell her you're staying over. You haven't done that in ages. Tell her it's for old times' sake. I have the night off and am watching the kids for my folks."

I chewed my lip. It could work.

"I promise it will be fun. And—" she lowered her voice further "—I can get us in to the back room at the Bucket."

"I don't even know what that is, Rose," I said.

She rolled her eyes. "It's a big deal, Z. That's what it is."

"I'll have to take your word for it."

"But you don't, because I can get us in."

She stopped talking then and stared at me, waiting for my final word.

"If I'm not at your house by seven I'm not coming," I said hurriedly.

She squealed and clapped her hands, then stood on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek as a pickup truck stopped in front of the house.

"Uh-oh. What are you two up to now?" my brother Tommy asked as he jumped out of the back and reached in to remove a small bunch of kindling for the kitchen cookstove.

He ran a hand through his wind-mussed dark hair, slapped the side of the vehicle, and waved as the driver gave me and Rose a grin before rumbling off down the street.

"Heya, Tommy," Rose said.

"Hey, Rosie. Saw your mother the other day when she came by the mill to bring your dad lunch. How you doin'?"

"I'm good. How's Jennie?"

Tommy grinned, a pink flush washing over his handsome face at the mention of his girlfriend.

"She's good, thanks."

He waved at her, swatted me on the arm as he walked by, and hurried into the house, rubbing at tired eyes as he went.

"He's so grown," Rose said.

"I know. I swear he's twice the size he was when he left college."

"He doin' okay with that?"

I shrugged and looked back at the door my brother had disappeared behind. Tommy was smart. All he'd wanted since he was a boy was to learn. He wanted to know everything. When he got a scholarship at the University of Washington, he was over the moon. But then Daddy got hurt and the bills needed to be paid, so he quit school to get a job at the same logging camp that had nearly taken our father's life.

"I catch him reading through his old textbooks whenever he comes home for a night. It's like he doesn't want to forget anything he learned in case he ever gets to go back."

"I feel for him," she said. "Logger life is rough, and Tommy has so much more in him than all that." She reached up to hug me, whispering in my ear as she did. "Seven o'clock?"

"If I'm not there—"

"You're not comin'. Got it."

"What did that girl want this time?" Mama asked as I sat back down beside her and picked up Eva's trousers.

"She has the night off and her folks are going out," I said, tying a knot and snipping the end of the thread. "She asked if I could stay over. Help out, have some girl talk. We haven't done that in ages."

"Girl talk?" I could feel her eyes on me.

I smiled over at her.

"Oh, Mama," I said. "You know Rose. She's the same as she's always been. Silly and boy crazy."

"And loud," she said. "With too much stuff on her face."

"Well, there will be none of that tonight," I said. "Just snacks and games I imagine."

I stood and moved to Mrs. Johnson's dress, avoiding my mother's gaze. Truth was, Rose was right. I was an adult and could legally do as I pleased. But I knew Mama had a lot to worry about these days and I was happy to not add to the list.

"You'll be home in the morning?" she asked.

My heart skipped a beat.

"Of course. But not too early," I said with a laugh. "I might have to take advantage of a night without Sarah kicking me."

Her face relaxed into a soft smile then.

"That girl. She's been a kicker since day one." She patted her belly fondly. "Some days I swore she was going to kick her way out of me." She glanced at the dress I was standing before. "Why don't you leave it for tomorrow."

"I can start on the waist. I have time."

"I know what you're missing out on, girl," she said. "And I appreciate your dedication to this family."

My eyes filled as I smiled. She didn't often thank me. And she definitely didn't show much affection these days.

"Thanks, Mama. I love this family," I said.

"I know you do, Zora Lil. And we love you."

We jumped then as a thud shook the house, followed by a scrape, a grumble, and the slamming open of my parents' bedroom door.

Mother's hand shot out and she steadied her water glass.

"Damn that man," she said under her breath.

The wilted form of my father emerged, his clothes from the day before rumpled as though he had spent a night getting trampled by car wheels. His face was bloated, as was his stomach, but the rest of him had wasted away.

"Good afternoon, Papa," I said, keeping my voice low so as not to assault his delicate state.

"Afternoon, girl," he rasped, running a knob-knuckled hand over my hair. "That heart for Eva?" He pointed to the pink heart on the trousers I'd left hanging over the back of my chair.

"Yessir."

"Yer a good sister."

"I try to be, Papa."

"The rest of 'em could learn a thing or two from ya," he said.

I nodded, trying not to choke on the alcohol wafting from his pores. My eyes watered and Mama shooed him away.

"There's soup on the stovetop," she said. "Get yourself a bowl. Maybe two."

"Gotta go out," he said, shrugging into his jacket.

Mama's fingers stopped moving and I held my breath. Harrison, still lying on the floor beside me, seemed to shrink in size.

"Where you off to?" Mama asked.

But my father didn't answer. He just swung open the front door, stepped outside, and closed the door behind him.

"Damn fool wasn't even wearing shoes," Mama said. She shook her head and gave a little chuckle. But I didn't miss the tear she wiped away.