A mild wave of tittering moved across the room; all present knew of the Field Company’s conservative nature.
“But it was necessary so that we might honor you with a proper toast,” Simpson said, and he raised his glass of champagne. “To Amelia Earhart — Queen of High Flying... and High Fashion.”
At the end of the toast, Amelia — who had no glass of her own — stepped forward and said, “I’m afraid you’ve broken your longstanding rule just to honor a teetotaler.”
More laughter followed.
“I thank you for your gracious introduction, Mr. Simpson, but I’m not here to make a formal speech. I would like to join you for what I understand will be a lovely presentation of the rather simple fashions I’ve come up with... not high fashion, really, but I hope you’ll take a liking to our line of functional clothing for active living.”
With a bashful smile and a step backward, Amelia indicated this was all she had to say.
But a male voice from between two dowagers in tiaras chimed out: “Miss Earhart, you’re of course to be congratulated on your recent success... the first solo flight from Hawaii to California...”
The voice belonged to the Trib’s Robert Lee, who stepped forward.
“Thank you,” Amelia said, uneasily. Just behind her, Putnam frowned at this intrusion.
“But this was a very dangerous flight,” Lee said, “already accomplished by a man... and had you been forced down at sea, the search would have cost the taxpayers millions.”
Putnam stepped forward, but Amelia raised a hand gently.
“I wasn’t forced down at sea,” Amelia said, softly, “and the gentleman who preceded me flew with a navigator, not solo. But I do feel, frankly, that the appreciation of my deed is out of proportion to the deed itself... I’ll be happy if my small exploit draws attention to the fact that women, too, are flying.”
A smattering of applause, accompanied by expressions of irritation turned toward the Tribune representative, was interrupted by Lee’s next volley: “Perhaps ‘deed’ isn’t the correct word, Miss Earhart. There are those who say this was a reckless stunt, bankrolled by Hawaiian interests campaigning against the sugar tariff.”
“I assure you that I’m more interested in aviation than sugar,” she said, rather tartly, and G. P. held up a palm like a traffic cop.
“Please,” he said. “This is not a press conference. It’s a social event and you’re quite at risk of spoiling the evening, sir. With all due respect...”
Bob Casey couldn’t resist; he popped out with: “Now that you’ve pulled off a Pacific crossing, is an around-the-world flight next?”
Casey’s tone was friendly enough and Amelia answered, “Everyone has dreams. I like to be ready...”
“We all admire you very much, Miss Earhart,” Casey said. “But I for one would like to see you abandon these dangerous ocean flights.”
“Why?” she asked, as if she and Casey were having a casual conversation over coffee. “Do you think my luck might run out?”
Casey arched an eyebrow. “You have been very lucky, Miss Earhart...”
Nothing defensive in her tone, she asked seriously, “Do you think luck only lasts so long, and then lets a person down?”
Putnam took his wife’s arm and said, “If you gentlemen of the press would like to arrange an interview with my wife, please speak to me, privately. Right now, we have a fashion show to present...”
The press conference was over, the reps from the Herald-Examiner and Times not even getting in a lick, though I saw them taking Putnam up on his offer, buttonholing him on the sidelines as the guests retreated to the circumference of the room and models began showing off Amelia’s wares, with the designer herself providing a low-key play-by-play.
“The tails of the blouse are long enough,” she said as a slender girl loped through the room in a white blouse and pleated navy slacks, “not to ride up and reveal the midriff... and the silk detailing on the blouse is parachute silk.”
An aviation theme ran cleverly throughout the collection: silver buttons in the shape of tiny propellers; hexagonal nuts fastening a jersey dress; a belt with a parachute buckle. Cool pastels and washable fabrics made for a shockingly sensible fashion show.
“This coat is Harris tweed,” she said, “with an innovation we think will catch on... a zip-in, washable lining.”
The simple, somewhat mannish lines of these practical clothes — broad shoulders, ample sleeves, natural waistlines — had a classic elegance that appealed to the starstruck crowd, and by the end of the evening, Field’s salesgirls were doing a brisk business, with frocks and mix-and-match outfits going for as little as $30.
I asked her about that, at dinner, over my Hungarian goulash with spätzles. “Those upper-crust types aren’t really who you’re aiming for, with your line, are they?”
Amelia, her husband, and I were at a table in the Victorian Room at the Palmer House, the hotel where they were staying. I was a frequent diner at the Palmer House, only normally in the basement lunchroom, at the counter. The plushly elegant white and gold room with its draperies of crimson was dominated by a large oil portrait of Queen Victoria; this was at the other end of the room and did not affect our appetites.
“Not really,” she admitted, touching a napkin to her full lips, having just finished a house specialty, the fried squab Ol’ Man River with pan gravy and pimento. “I think my audience is working women, particularly professional women.”
“Well, we’re not going to last long in the marketplace,” Putnam said, “if you insist on high-quality fabrics and low prices.” He’d been the first of us to finish eating, polishing off the potted brisket of beef like it was his last meal.
“Working women need washable, non-wrinkle materials,” she said, sounding like a cross between a commercial and a political statement — not that there was much difference.
“We’re not making a profit yet,” Putnam said.
She shrugged as she pushed away her plate. “The luggage line is doing well.”
“That’s true,” Putnam granted her, obviously not wanting this to turn into an argument. “Very true, and with the lecture series coming up, we should soon be in better shape.”
She glanced at me, obviously uneasy that their personal business was being discussed in front of a stranger. Like me, she didn’t seem to understand why, exactly, I was here.
“Also,” Putnam said brightly, cold eyes glittering behind the rimless glasses, “there’s something I’d like to show you, dear... perhaps after we’ve had dessert.”
She looked at him with what might have been suspicion. “What?”
His eyebrows went up, then down, like Groucho Marx, only not so funny. “Something you’ll like. Something potentially very profitable.”
“May I ask...” She turned to me again, her smile warm and apologetic. “...and I mean no offense, Mr. Heller...” And now she turned back to her husband. “...if there’s a reason why we’re discussing business in a social setting?”
“I think you probably already know the answer to that one, A. E.”
“Simpkin,” she said to him, a nickname she’d already used several times over our sumptuous, expensive meal, “I’ve told you a dozen times I don’t take any of that seriously. It’s the sort of thing people in the public eye just have to put up with.”
“I disagree,” he said with a frown, then flicked a finger in my direction. “At least you could do me the courtesy of getting a professional opinion from Nate, here. After all, security is his field. Didn’t he do a fine job this evening?”
Amelia smiled and shook her head, then said to me, again, “I mean no offense, Mr. Heller, but—”