“Daisy and Catherine both said they’d never seen it before. But Jordan told me flat out it looked like it could be Daisy’s.”
Nick laughed. “It probably was Daisy’s. Jordan doesn’t own anything. Daisy gives her everything. It isn’t a give-and-take kind of friendship. It’s a take-and-take-and-take kind of friendship, if you know what I mean?”
He nodded again. Sure… Maybe he did.
“So it might’ve belonged to Daisy,” Nick said now, handing the hairpin back to him. “But Jordan wore it last summer. Every date I went on with her, she had a pin that looked just like this in her hair.”
Frank thought back to his conversation with Jordan in South Jersey. He’d been so flabbergasted by her apparent honesty that it hadn’t occurred to him until right this very moment listening to Nick what it was exactly Jordan had said: Daisy was at parties at Jay’s house all summer. She could’ve dropped it anytime, Jordan had insisted.
But he’d never told her where he’d found the hairpin.
Myrtle April 1922
NEW YORK
THE END OF EVERYTHING BEGAN with the yellow car.
You didn’t see so much color out here among the ashes. It was part of the reason why I lived for my weekends in the city with Cath—color. Everything there was just bursting with it—red and green awnings of storefronts, pinks of taxicabs, the purple blue of the lilacs that bloomed in Central Park this time of year. Staring out my apartment window, above George’s garage, the entire world always looked dirty and gray.
So I watched the fancy yellow car drive into our lot with fascination. We rarely saw expensive cars like that around here, only once in a while, when a millionaire from East Egg might stop for gas on his way into the city. But I couldn’t recall seeing any car so bright. It felt a little like that first daffodil bloom peeking up through the April snow back in Rockvale: hope.
Still, I stared at the yellow car, at first, only a moment, before dismissing its importance. Probably just a rich man who’d gotten lost or had car trouble on his way out to Long Island. Wouldn’t be the first one, and certainly wouldn’t be the last. I walked away from the window and carried on with my morning. I’d put away the breakfast dishes and was trying to scrub a large spot of grease out of George’s brown overalls. I kept on scrubbing, scrubbing even though my knuckles were already raw from washing the dishes. There was a rhythm, a painful monotony to my housework. Depending on the day, I either let that put me at ease or drive me slowly mad.
“Myrtle, get down here!” George’s voice called for me up the stairs, and I jumped at his unexpected call, dropped the overalls.
I wiped my hands on a dish towel. “Coming,” I yelled back. George never wanted me down in the garage unless he was so busy he needed me to ring up customers. But as far as I could tell from looking out the window, only the yellow car was here. George wasn’t busy at all.
I bounded down the stairs to the garage below, feeling a sickness swell in my stomach, rising to my chest, worried that George was angry with me. I tried to swallow it back. George had been in such a pleasant mood this morning, at breakfast. I hadn’t even seen him since—what could he possibly be mad about? We were fine, George and I, except when I occasionally forgot myself, when I acted ungrateful, when I accidentally showed him how I despised this small life of ours. Day by day, it wasn’t so hard really, to pretend to be happy, to force a smile.
I reached the bottom of the stairs, and George stood there, his arms across his chest. He looked more amused than angry, and I exhaled. Behind him, a man dressed in a pink suit leaned against the yellow car. When he saw me, he tipped his cream-colored hat, and his blond hair tumbled out across his forehead. I glanced nervously at George, not sure what was going on.
“George?” I said his name softly, a question, not daring to make eye contact with the man from the yellow car, but feeling his eyes on me all the same.
“This man says he’s Catherine’s friend,” George said. “You didn’t tell me your sister had a rich beau, Myrtle.”
“I didn’t…” My voice trailed off and I shook my head. Cath hadn’t told me anything of the sort. No matter how many times I’d prodded, begged her, pleaded with her, she’d said there was no special man and she certainly hadn’t mentioned anyone… rich. “I didn’t quite believe it myself until… well, I saw him standing here,” I corrected myself. Lying to George was second nature by now, and whoever this man was—Catherine’s beau or not—I wanted the opportunity to speak with him myself. George would only let that happen if he believed this man was completely attached to my sister.
“He said he had a question for you,” George said. “I told him your father’s still alive back in Rockvale. If it’s Catherine’s hand in marriage he wants permission for, he’d better take a train out to Rockvale like I did.”
“I told you, old sport,” the man said gently. His voice was easy, calm. “There’s no marriage on the horizon. Just a favor I want Myrtle’s help with. Something to… surprise Catherine with. If I could just speak with Myrtle for a minute or two, and then I’ll be on my way.”
George glanced at the man again, then glanced at me. He hesitated, still not sure he wanted to leave me alone with this man, but not quite wanting to get himself caught up in anything concerning Cath, either. George barely tolerated her as it was—god forbid something might be asked of him, regarding her happiness. Luckily for both of us, another car drove into the lot and stopped by the gas pump. A black weathered sedan, part of our normal color palette. George shot me a warning look, then walked off to help his customer.
“Who are you?” I asked the man now. “And are you really seeing Cath? She’s never mentioned you.”
He smiled. He had a warm, bright smile and stunning green eyes. Handsome and rich. Why hadn’t Cath mentioned him? “Catherine was a friend of mine in the city, yes,” he said.
“Was?” I questioned, not liking the sound of that.
“I’ve just recently left the city. Bought a house in West Egg, right on the water.”
I shook my head. None of that answered my questions. He kept on smiling, in a calm, easy way that was almost unsettling. “I don’t understand,” I said. “What do you want from me?”
“Catherine mentioned to me once or twice that you could… use some extra money.” My face turned an instant red at the very idea that Cath had discussed me, and my life, with this wealthy man friend of hers.
“I’m doing just fine,” I lied, huffily. He looked around, raised his eyebrows. It was abundantly clear that I was not doing just fine.