World at Home

by Ginny Kubitz Moyer

Genres: Coming of Age; World War II

Synopsis

For fans of Christina Baker Kline and Fiona Davis, a coming-of-age story about a young woman discovering love, loss, and the power of her own creativity in World War II San Francisco.

San Francisco in 1944 is a bustling place, a revolving door of soldiers and sailors passing through on their way to the war in the Pacific. Twenty-year-old Irene Cleary, however, is not going anywhere. Although she’d love to travel, the seamstress shop she inherited from her mentor keeps her firmly rooted in the only city she’s ever known. She pours her energy into dressmaking and volunteers for the war effort by dancing with servicemen at the USO.

But Irene’s life is transformed when she designs a gown for Cynthia Burke, the socialite whose new marriage to Max, a handsome Chicago businessman, is the talk of the Nob Hill elite. As Irene is drawn into the Burkes’ glamorous, troubled orbit, and as she becomes absorbed in making costumes for the first American performance of a ballet called The Nutcracker, she finds herself on the threshold of exhilarating, perilous new worlds . . . and the most surprising discoveries of all will be the ones about herself.

Set in a vibrant city during a turbulent time, The World at Home is a coming-of-age story about creativity, loss, and the many lessons we learn from love.

Release date: December 9, 2025

Publisher: She Writes Press

Print pages: 256

Sample

ONE

___________________

1944

Imet Max and Cynthia Burke on the kind of day that makes you never want to leave San Francisco. If you know this city, you can picture the sort of day I mean. Walking up the steep street toward their apartment building, I felt that lift of spirits you get when the sky is blue and clear and the windows reflect the sun like little bursts of crystal, a day where the city seems to be showing off, flaunting the beauty of the bay and the hills beyond. Even in wartime, with gray battleships brooding in the water, it’s a lovely place.

Admittedly, I don’t have much to compare it to. I grew up here and have hardly ever left the city, to be honest. But there’s always something new to admire, and on that September day the object of my admiration was Nob Hill, home to more luxury apartments per square block than anywhere else in the city. The Mark Hopkins Hotel, with its rooftop bar the Top of the Mark, was the only place in that expensive neighborhood I’d ever actually been inside.

Going up the street I quickened my pace, which wasn’t easy; this hilly city makes you work. I was wearing heels and my latest creation, a dove-gray suit with deep red trim around the edges, consisting of a peplum jacket and skirt with a kick pleat. I’d saved hard to buy the hat, a red one with an upturned brim that seemed to be saluting the sky. I had one pair of good nylons left, and I carefully skirted the edges of a small hedge, for to snag them would be a tragedy.

It was my best outfit, and I needed to wear my best, for I was about to meet with Mrs. Cynthia Burke (formerly Miss Cynthia McNeil) about a dress she wanted altered. She had phoned my shop the day before, surprising me in the middle of a fitting. “I’m trying to find a seamstress who will be able to come tomorrow,” she said. “I’m quite eager to start on remaking this dress.”

She had actually called for Anna Orlova, who used to own the shop. When I told her that Anna had passed away in December—an awkward thing to say over the phone—she said with earnest sympathy, “Oh, I’m so sorry. It was my hairdresser who gave me this number. Miss Orlova made a dress for her once. But you’re a seamstress as well? Perhaps you would be free.”

I explained that I’d been an apprentice to Anna and the shop was now mine, and that I’d be delighted to come the next day at any time that was convenient. So we settled on three o’clock, and I said a poised goodbye as if I were used to making dresses for the socialites of Nob Hill, managing to contain my wild excitement at the astonishing opportunity that had just appeared on my doorstep.

On the sidewalk opposite the imposing Fairmont Hotel I paused, taking a moment to catch my breath. Just beyond the hotel was the Burkes’ apartment building. It was L-shaped, with ornate entrance pillars and a paved forecourt, its doorway flanked with manicured trees growing in fancy planter boxes. I had seen it once before, coming back from the Top of the Mark in April, but had never dreamed I’d ever be invited inside.

My confidence began to waver, so I paused and opened my compact. The red precision of my lipstick gave me a quick shot of courage. Beneath the hat my light brown hair, dressed in Victory rolls, looked as neat and glossy as the hair of a woman in a magazine.

“You walk like you’re someone,” said a soldier I danced with my first week at the USO. I tucked that comment away in my memory and bring it out anytime I need a little confidence. My posture has always been excellent (I have the nuns to thank for that), and when you grow up as I have, without the benefit of family, you learn to compensate for it in how you carry yourself.

straight makes up for that. My light brown hair is thick, and I’m good at styling it. I’ve got hazel eyes that taper a little at the corners, and I like my mouth and teeth. The one thing I’ve always disliked, and it’s a big thing, are my freckles. They’re not like my friend Trixie Dubuque’s freckles, cute cinnamon-colored ones which lie sprinkled across her nose as if someone tapped them out of a sifter. My freckles are more the rule than the exception, one leading into another, as if someone has laid a whole sheet of them over my skin; even the fronts of my arms and legs are covered. I’ve found that when I meet people for the first time, there’s often a beat of surprise in their eyes, as if they need a moment to absorb what they see. My friend Louise likes to say that people (by which she means men) talk to her chest instead of her face. For me, they talk to my freckles and always have.

I patted a little powder on my nose, appraising myself with a critical eye. A twenty-year-old woman with her own business doesn’t want to look any younger than she is, which was why I’d chosen my most sophisticated hat. Tilting the mirror, I took a moment to admire its crimson elegance.

My watch said it was five minutes to three, so I put away the compact, snapped shut my pocketbook, and happened to look up right into the eyes of a sailor who was stepping onto the sidewalk in front of me. He had golden blond hair and brown eyes, a combination so startlingly familiar that for a moment my heart seemed to stop. I froze there on the sidewalk, staring at him. Then he nodded and said, “Good morning, Miss,” and he and his companion continued on, their voices floating behind them as they walked in the direction of the bay.

It was good that a woman pushing a baby carriage came up behind me and asked, “Pardon me, are you crossing?” for I had to smile, say yes, and collect myself enough to start walking. And I was caught up again in the currents of San Francisco in wartime, a busy city that does not stop, that hardly lets you think.

The Burkes’ apartment building had a doorman wearing a double-breasted coat and a peaked cap. He tipped it to me as I entered and gave me a welcoming smile, which I needed, for in the courtyard I’d just passed what looked like a Rolls Royce gleaming in the sun.

The lobby was a glorious blend of mirrors and marble and floral arrangements on pillars. As I pressed the button for the elevator, trying not to look obviously impressed by my surroundings, I couldn’t help but marvel at the surprising twists of fate. It didn’t seem possible that I, Irene Mary Cleary, was about to meet Cynthia McNeil Burke.

In some ways, I felt I already knew her. For years I’d seen her photos in the newspaper: Cynthia McNeil at the fashion show, at the opening night of the Opera. She was often with her father, Harrison McNeil, who owned a shipping company, or with her mother Eleanor, who was a slightly less slim double of her daughter. There was a younger sister and an older brother, but it was Cynthia who had always fired my imagination. I’d been aware of her ever since she was eighteen and had a lavish coming-out party, which had been given its own full-page article in the San Francisco Chronicle. Trixie and I, both thirteen years old, had lain on the floor with our faces inches away from the newspaper, admiring Cynthia’s white dress with a diagonal line of rosettes on the bodice.

The elevator was taking its time, apparently going nearly to the top floor before coming back down. Watching each number light up in turn, I thought about Cynthia’s most recent appearances in the newspaper. The last six months had certainly been a whirlwind for her, beginning in March, when she had been a bridesmaid in the wedding of Fred Gibson and Betty Sweeney. The wedding was a big event by wartime standards, for the Gibsons, like the McNeils, were old city money. Photos had been taken on the steps of St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, and the Chronicle had included a huge picture of Cynthia alone, smiling at the camera from underneath her cloud of blonde hair, in a gorgeous floor-length dress with what looked like darker piping on the bodice. “In sea green chiffon, Cynthia McNeil almost upstages the bride,” said the caption.

“Gosh,” I remember Trixie saying as she studied the photograph. “That’s a terrible thing to say. They’ve managed to insult both women at once."

I’d been so enraptured by Cynthia’s dress I hadn’t even noticed.

The bride, Betty, was not a native of San Francisco. She was from Florida, the daughter of an admiral who had come west due to the war, and the photos showed her to be pretty in a sweet, cute way, like the fresh-faced girl in the movies whose unconscious charm defeats the more glamorous femme fatale. In the photos, Fred Gibson, a surgeon at Letterman Army Hospital, held her arm and looked down at her proudly.

It was disappointing that Cynthia’s own wedding had been a civil one, in another city. A month after the Gibson wedding, she’d gone to Chicago, where she’d met and married Max Burke. He was the owner of a string of successful nightclubs, described by the paper as “watering holes for the local elite.” The Chronicle had run a photo of the two of them on the steps of Chicago City Hall: Cynthia in an elegant suit, holding a massive bouquet; Max Burke, a tall man with a solid build, holding her elbow. “Cupid Strikes in the Windy City!” the paper had exclaimed.

They were a stunning couple, her blonde elegance paired with his dark good looks. It’s proof that beautiful people seem to find each other, I mused as the elevator pinged and the doors slowly opened. Wealthy people did, too, of course. It was a world I didn’t know, one where you had a family solidly behind you, where you had a home on Nob Hill and a country estate on the Peninsula—a world where your money would open every door.

Was I envious? Not exactly, for the world the Burkes inhabited was one I’d never presumed I could enter. It had always seemed too far away for envy. I knew I would never have Cynthia’s cool refined beauty or a penthouse apartment. I’d never have my photos in the society pages.

There was a time you thought you’d have a family, though, said a tiny voice inside as I entered the elevator, but as soon as my thoughts drifted into that familiar and dangerous groove I shied away from it, like you do when your tongue hits a sensitive place on your tooth. I didn’t want to think about it anymore, although the memory of Johnny drifted back to me often, like an unwelcome phantom. I pushed the button and stood waiting, making myself stand even taller than usual.

have imagined my life would ever intersect with the Burkes, and yet I was about to enter their apartment, to walk quite literally into their world. Maybe the boundaries in San Francisco were more porous than they’d seemed. Today could change my life, I thought with a thrill as the elevator moved me noiselessly upward.

Cynthia Burke herself opened the apartment door. I’d have recognized her anywhere: the hair styled in immaculate blonde waves, the perfectly arched eyebrows above wide-set eyes. But it was her complexion, more than anything, that filled me with awe. It was the sort you see in advertisements in women’s magazines, rose-petal skin without a single blemish.

It was a mark of her exquisite manners that she did not visibly react to my freckles. She smiled warmly and said, “Miss Cleary? I’m Cynthia Burke. It’s lovely to meet you. Please, come in.”

The paneled foyer led into a living room with a huge window overlooking the city and the bay. I’d never been in an apartment with such a view, and I suspect few people have. Curtains in a light blue print framed the window, with walls the color of oyster shells and carpet a touch darker. There was a beautiful formal portrait of Cynthia over the fireplace, a crystal vase on the mantel, and an arrangement of lilies, looking like porcelain, on the polished coffee table. Everything was delicate and feminine.

Cynthia indicated a place on the divan and offered me tea. She sat down in a small gilt chair opposite, smart in her gray skirt and light blue cashmere sweater. I couldn’t help noticing her ring; it was a single diamond, almost cartoonishly large, like the kind mined by the dwarves in Snow White.

“I’m so glad you could come today,” she said as we drank the tea, which appeared so quickly it must have been prepared and waiting. “I’ve an event coming up, and nothing in the stores appealed to me. I know it’s not patriotic to complain, but good material is so hard to come by now.”

I nodded my sympathy, putting my cup down carefully in the saucer. It was white china with a silver filigree, subtle and elegant.

“So I thought of remaking this dress I wore once, five years ago. I’ve always loved it. And the fabric is better than anything I’ll find now, I think.”

“I’d be happy to take a look at it, Mrs. Burke.”

“Here it is,” she said, going over to a standing screen by the fireplace and unhooking a hanger from its edge. She held the dress up, and I caught my breath.

The fabric was exquisite, dark rose satin, the rich kind that looks like cool water rippling in a brook. It was a long evening dress with a high scoop neck and a fitted bodice, tight through the hips then flaring out gradually from there to the ground. The sleeves were long and full, falling gracefully to a band at the wrist. It was a design of five or six years before, pretty but no longer stylish, and I was immediately thinking about how to transform it. Cynthia watched me silently, waiting for my assessment.

“What if,” I said, “you cut down the neckline?”

“I was thinking that. Perhaps a square neck?”

“No, that would look too severe. I’d do a V-neck, I think. What sort of jewelry were you thinking of wearing with it?”

“Just the diamonds,” she said. I could not imagine myself or anyone I knew saying “just the diamonds” so casually. “A pendant on a silver chain, with a matching bracelet and earrings.”

“Definitely a V-neck,” I said, getting up. I took off my right glove to finger the dress material, turning it over and assessing the seams. “You could replace the sleeves with very thin straps, I think. I could use the sleeve material on the bodice, shirring it slightly? Just to give it some texture.”

We talked a while longer, and I got more and more excited by the possibilities; you would almost think the dress was mine. I told her I could draw up a sketch of my ideas, and she agreed with heartening enthusiasm.

down again. “Was it worn for a particular event?”

“A sixteenth birthday party at the country club, for a friend of mine. Actually, I was friends with her older brother. But we know the family well.”

“I hope you will enjoy wearing it just as much a second time.”

She flashed me a look, an odd one as she picked up her cup; I don’t know quite how else to describe it. Then she smiled again. “I’m sure I will. I look forward to seeing your designs.”

There was a sudden noise from the foyer, the sound of a door opening and closing. Cynthia’s face changed, this time to an unmistakable look of irritation. Into the doorway came Max Burke, instantly recognizable from the photo I’d seen, smoothing back his hair as if he’d just taken off a hat.

He went right to his wife, bending to kiss her cheek. “Hello, Cynthia,” he said, but she did not turn to make it easier for him.

“You’re back early.”

“Less traffic than I thought.” He saw me then, straightened, smiled. “Oh, I didn’t know you had a friend over.” He strode toward me with an outstretched hand. “We haven’t met yet, have we. Max Burke.”

I was too seized with awkwardness to take his hand at first. Cynthia said coolly, “This is Miss Cleary. She’s here to help me with a dress.”

“Oh. Well, nice to meet you,” he said, still holding out his hand. I took it, feeling naked without my gloves. His hand was warm, which made me realize just how cold my own must have felt. It was a relief when he let go.

It was hard not to stare, for I had never met anyone like Max. He was just as handsome as his photo: tall with broad shoulders; dark, almost-black hair, thick and well-groomed; alert brown eyes; a high forehead; and a mouth that turned up slightly at the corners, which gave the impression that he was thinking of something amusing or at least pleasant. I was surprised to see that he had a heavy five o’clock shadow, giving him an almost piratical look. But what I felt most of all was his masculinity, which made an immediate impression, like walking into a cloud of cologne. The impact was only heightened by the decor of the room; his broad frame and stubble seemed out of place in such an elegant setting. I was so momentarily overwhelmed by my thoughts and so determined to keep them hidden that I didn’t even notice his reaction to my freckles.

Cynthia had stood up and crossed to the mantel, opening a silver box. “Would you care for a cigarette, Miss Cleary?”

“Thank you, no.” I was relieved that my voice sounded normal. Max moved swiftly towards her, reaching into his breast pocket for a lighter, but she had lit a cigarette for herself before he could do it for her. She moved back to her chair, and he remained standing by the mantel, hands in his pockets, looking after her.

“So you’re a dress designer?” he said abruptly, turning toward me.

“Yes, Mr. Burke.” I didn’t normally call myself that—“seamstress” was the word I was used to—and for a moment I felt like an imposter.

“It’s a new dress?” he said to his wife.

“No. I’m remaking another one.”

“Which one?”

She raised her eyebrows toward the rose satin. “That one.”

He glanced at it and turned quickly back to her. I was surprised to see a look of alarm come into his eyes. “The one from the dance?”

She said nothing, just lifted the cigarette to her lips.

“I’ll buy you any dress you like, Cynthia,” he said. “You don’t need to remake that one.”

“Of course I don’t need to,” she said, and I was shocked by the tone of her voice; it was close to contempt. “But I’ve always loved that dress.” She smiled warmly at me, such a contrast to the tone she’d used with her husband. “So you’ll let me know when you have the design, Miss Cleary?”

“Yes, Mrs. Burke. I’ll call as soon as it’s ready.”

“Excellent. Thank you very much."

“My pleasure.”

standing by the mantel, eyes following her as she passed him into the foyer. I picked up my pocketbook and stood irresolutely for a moment, surprised by currents between them that I could not understand, uncertain how to say goodbye to him in a way that seemed both friendly and professional.

Then he looked at me. With his wife gone it was the obvious place for his attention to turn, but I felt flustered all the same. As before, I had an overwhelming sense of his physical presence: the breadth of shoulder, the five o’clock shadow, the brown eyes. He said nothing, so I summoned all my poise.

“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Burke,” I said.

“You too, Miss Cleary.” I was surprised he’d remembered my name. His gaze moved to my shoes then up to my hat, as if assessing my ensemble, my skill as a designer. There was a businessman’s approval in it, which bolstered my confidence, but when his eyes met mine again I felt discomfited, my fragile poise deserting me.

“Goodbye then,” I said awkwardly and quickly left the room. ...