A Heart Revealed by Julie Lessman

knew—as sure as the endless breadlines that trailed past Mr. Kelly’s door—that when it came to bad news, the Herald had nothing on him.

    “I just bet you have a bed in that supply room, don’t you, made up all neat and proper?”
    Surprise lifted the edges of Emma’s mouth as she blinked up at Charity, who stood at the door, hip slanted.
    “Go ahead—I dare you to deny it,” Charity said strolling in with her clutch in one hand and a bulging shopping bag in the other. With a quick scan of Emma’s spacious office, her blue eyes went wide, lids and penciled brows shiny with petroleum jelly in the style of the day. “Oh! You finally redid your office—I love it!” She nudged the rounded toe of her blue Mary Jane heel against a maroon geometric-patterned rug with clean, straight lines—except for one frayed edge—then hiked an appreciative brow. “No fringe—very art deco. And very expensive. So unlike you.”
    Emma smiled. “Clearance, Boss, damaged in shipping. Couldn’t sell it to save my soul.”
    Charity nodded and eyed the rest of the office that Emma had worked so hard to make cozy. With as many hours as she spent here, Emma had finally relented to Charity’s badgering to decorate her “home away from home.” The result was a wonderful oasis where she’d transformed a cold, sterile section at the back of the second story into a warm and inviting office space that felt almost like home. A tall arched window boasted several lush plants as well as a view of a tiny city park where children now played before dusk chased them home. Pale pink light from the waning summer sun spilled into the room, casting a warm glow over cream-colored walls splashed with color from vibrant framed prints. Sleek, modernistic images of flappers and garden parties stared back, a haunting reminder of an avant-garde era that boasted better times. Charity deposited her shopping bag next to the phonograph machine on a cherrywood buffet against the wall, then leaned to inspect her lipstick in an art deco mirror with fanned edges of matching wood.
    “Mmm . . . very nice,” she said with a pucker of her lips.
    Emma chuckled. “The furniture . . . or your face?”
    Charity wheeled on her heels and grinned. “Both,” she said with a smirk. She lifted a record from the phonograph and quirked a brow. “Spending your evenings with Rudy Vallee, are we? Why, Mrs. Malloy, you little vixen, you . . . and all this time I thought you were working.”
    A low chuckle parted from Emma’s lips as she propped chin in hand to give Charity a sultry look, tone husky. “What can I say, the man and I work well together.”
    “Ha! ‘Work’ being the operative word.” Charity strolled over to trail a hand along the cherrywood finish of Emma’s desk. Her mouth sagged open. “A dining room set?”
    Emma shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “A total dining room return—Mrs. Wellington III claims there was a gouge on the table when Horace delivered it.”
    “Was there?” Charity asked, plopping into one of the matching cherrywood padded chairs in front of Emma’s “desk.”
    “Not anymore,” Emma said with a proud smile. She scooted her antiquated typewriter back several inches to reveal a nasty scratch that was filled in with stain. “Horace says it wasn’t there when he delivered it, but it’s the store’s word against hers, so I decided to make good use of it for both me and my trusty Remington.”
    Charity crossed her legs with a lift of her brow, and Emma caught a whiff of Chanel No. 5. “Very ingenious, but what are you doing with a typewriter? I thought that was Bert’s job.”
    Emma grinned and laid her pen aside. “God bless her, Bertolina Adriani is crabby enough these days, so I’m just trying to lighten the load.”
    “Humph . . . God has already blessed her with a supervisor who does half of her work.” Almond-shaped eyes thinned into a scowl, but Charity’s voice held a hint of humor. “You are such a