Prologue

 

It would seem that everyone in the city was swiping newspapers at dawn, not the Mirror nor the Post, but "The Journal Of Our Times"-a small, easily tattered four- page rag published sometimes weekly, sometimes monthly, sometimes in-between; whenever its publishers had enough seamy stories, antics, jokes and pictures available to make their scandal sheet worth printing. Few people actually knew it by its name or called it any name for that matter. In some circles, it was simply abridged to The Journal, and spoken of with a snicker or a faint blush. But no man in polite company would admit that he read it. Occasionally, a secretive chuckle or two would pass between men at the clubs, or taverns or in the backroom gambling parlors, but The Journal would never be mentioned in front of the ladies. No woman would admit in polite, sullied or common company that she'd even heard of such a rag, let alone read or receive a private rush from such trashy smut.

On a Friday morning in late June, the first of several extraordinary photographs appeared inside the folded pages of the latest Journal. As were all the images printed in this newspaper, this one was a salacious photograph by current 1920's standards, depicting a nude young woman-just a girl actually, but a girl old enough to know what she was doing and with the right to do it.

Yet, there was something quite different about this 'Girl In The Mirror'-as the photograph was titled-from other photographs printed in previous editions. The picture was taken of the girl's reflection in the mirror, while the girl, looking pleasantly wistful, remained somewhere on the sidelines sitting on a bed. She was turned slightly to the side and peering over her shoulder, while the camera recorded that side of her body from the top of her head to the top of her thighs. The photographer had managed to capture her face with an expression such as might commonly be seen after sexual intercourse, a post-coitus look of satisfaction. One could almost imagine bending down to kiss her slightly rapturous face as she looked up longingly, her deep soulful eyes still gushing forth with desire. Although her body was extraordinarily lovely and her long, light hair was falling seductively about her shoulders, it was the eyes and the expression on her full lips that conquered everyone that early morning. She was nothing like the whores who typically posed for the rag, earning dimes and supper-if the photographer was particularly generous. The girl in the mirror was classless, divine in innocence, surely tenderhearted, and perhaps, one could easily imagine, a bit of an imp. The line of her back, as it delicately diminished into the sheets she held demurely around her hips, could inspire love poems, while the curve of her plump breasts begged for the touch of a hand, or even a firm squeeze. There was something durable about this one. Innocent, yes, but durable. A functional woman, a simple woman, a practical woman, yet flushed with a naïve and playful charm.

Such nipples! The two rounds puckered like sweet kisses from the centers of her full breasts. And that hand, lying inside the sheets between her thighs, would cause any man, vulgar or cultured, to quicken in his pants... suggestive, teasing and likely a deliberate device on the part of the photographer to make this photograph the kind of sleazy fare his customers expected. But it was still that face that drew men to the image again and again through their day, that caused them to rip the picture from the paper once they finished the issue and pocket it in some secret place where it could be taken out and viewed again.

For the first time in its year long history, The Journal received a dozen letters from men interested in courting the girl, or hoping for another glimpse of her stunning, stylish, simple beauty. Many would not be satisfied until they discovered her identity. They would often gaze at young women near her age, in shops and brothels and on street corners, in search of that face. But there was an unidentifiable quality about her that made her as mysterious as she was direct. Perhaps she was not a girl at all, but a mere invention, the result of camera angles, shadows, light and the individual interpretation of each man who adored that remarkable image.

Chapter One

 

Amiee Wynn Bloom exited the family home for the last time, leaving in the dead of night, lest her scheme be found out by those who had no business knowing her business. There was no one in the house to say goodbye to. Her family was gone: father killed in a railroad accident, her mother dying of diphtheria months later, her sister following shortly afterwards and her little brother gone to live with the aunt who had decided that Amiee could never raise a child properly. She was too silly a girl. The old woman made this assessment quickly, when she found Aimee fervently kissing a boy in the woodshed, wrapped in a clench so tight and so intertwined that one could only assume they would soon be grappling on the dusty floor, seeking bare flesh.

"Do what you like, girl," she told Amiee, as she pulled the eight-year-old Jarrod from his sister's side. "But don't come back to visit until you're properly situated. Your brother belongs to me now."

Aimee was tempted to argue, but it took few brains to realize that no one would come to her defense in her small village. Amiee was the senseless, frivolous one-the dreamer, the romantic, the slightly 'off' young woman with her head stuck in the clouds or in books. She'd never amount to anything. She might make a decent wife, some supposed-if you had a firm man standing over her. And she might bear children, others speculated-but what good is a mother if she's too preoccupied with her daydreams to take care of her young? Perhaps a poet, a writer or an artist, but what use are they in a place where being practical is a daily necessity?

This was the general evaluation of Aimee Wynn Bloom by those who knew her. When she was left an orphan with one young sibling, she was hardly able to take care of herself-in her aunt's opinion-let alone a rambunctious child. When Amiee abruptly moved to the city, everyone was shocked she had the spunk, the determination and the cleverness to make such a drastic change in her life. But Aimee didn't see herself the way other people saw her. She understood that she was a dreamer, given to fantasy and romantic ideals, but she understood as well, that inside her beat the heart of a much stronger woman than anyone would guess. She knew how to be practical-her mother, her aunt, the village, and the circumstances of living in a farming community had taught her that much-she just preferred her own way when it was feasible. When her 'own way' wasn't prudent, she knew how to live efficiently. She knew she'd needed to get a decent position in the city and find decent quarters to live in. That was exactly what she planned to do the moment she stepped off the train.

As she walked from the train station toward town, looking for a proper single ladies hotel, she passed a general merchandize store with a sign in the window, "Clerk for hire." Marching inside the shop with her head held high and a sincere smile on her face, she declared to the proprietor, "I believe I'm the woman you need." Although her palms were sweating and her voice threatening to crack, she managed to contain her nervousness.

"Ya do, huh?" the wrinkled elderly woman shuffled toward her, peering up at her sideways through a pair of thick glasses. She held her cane in front of her with both bony hands to steady her balance and scrutinized the lovely face before her. "Used to hard work?" she asked.

"I was raised on a farm. I've known my share."

"And what do you know about a business like this?"

Amiee stared around. "Not very much, but these are the things of general living, food, clothing, sewing items. I'm familiar with them all, and I'm very smart."

"I'll bet you are," the old lady teetered a bit as she continued to stare at the girl. It was as though she couldn't take her eyes off this pluckish innocent. "Ya pay attention to you work and your deportment. Won't put up with sullenness, or bad behavior, if you understand what I mean. I run a decent place here and I expect the help to be the same way."

"Of course, you do," Aimee smiled.

"When can you start?"

"Right now, if you like."

"Then start right now," the old lady said, "I'm Emma Whittier, and you?"

"Amiee Wynn Bloom."

"Then, Aimee Wynn Bloom, you can get your apron in the back." Emma Whittier pointed to the doors at the far end of the canned goods. "They'll be one hanging on the rack there. You can replace it with your coat and leave your bag below it."