Blackberry Winter

Chapter 11




VERA

The plump female shopkeeper at Frederick and Nelson eyed me disapprovingly before looking up at Lon’s assistant and letting out an annoyed sigh. “Another one?”

Andrew pointed to a rack of formal dresses in the distance. “She’ll need an array of gowns,” he said. “Mr. Edwards prefers red, but throw in some other colors—for variety. And she’ll need other garments too.” He gave the woman a knowing look, before checking his watch. “Charge it to Mr. Edwards’s account, as usual.”

“All right,” the woman said, raising an eyebrow. “We have work to do.”

“Good,” Andrew said. “Please see to it that she arrives at the hairdresser by four. Mr. Edwards will be meeting her for dinner at five, and not a minute later.” I felt like goods on a delivery truck.

I followed her into a changing room and stood numbly in front of a mirror as she pried off my clothing. My dress fell to the floor in disgrace, a crumpled pile of dark blue frayed fabric.

Another woman walked in the room, this one younger.

“Melinda!” the older woman barked. “Get rid of this dress. She won’t be needing it anymore.”

I felt a surge of sadness as I watched the sales assistant pick up the dress and carry it away. The pocket was torn and the hem ragged. And yet, I had worn it the last time I’d cradled Daniel in my arms. It felt, in some way, as if I were discarding a part of him. A part of us.

“Please,” I begged. “May I keep it?”

The woman let out a dry cackle. “That old rag?”

I stared at my bare feet, trying with all my might to keep the tears from coming.

“Fortunately for you, Mr. Edwards has taken a liking to you,” the woman continued. “You can wear nicer things now.”

I closed my eyes tightly as she tugged at my undergarments. I half-listened as she measured my bust. “He typically prefers a rounder figure,” she said, staring at my breasts with a scrutinizing expression. “It would do you good to eat more.”

I grimaced as she unhooked my corset, exposing my body completely. The cold air felt cruel against my bare skin. The mirror’s reflection revealed a stomach that sagged at its center, where I’d carried Daniel just three years prior. I had birthed him at home, alone. Caroline had been there at the end; she’d patted my face with a cool cloth and sung to me. Labor had been long and painful. But when I’d held him in my arms, none of that had mattered. I’d have done it all over again for him. My Daniel. I felt the tears welling up again. I will not cry. I will not let this woman see me cry.

“I see you’ve had children,” the woman said disapprovingly, strapping a beige corset around my ribs.

I nodded. “Yes,” I said quietly. “Just one. A wonderful little boy who—”

“It’s good you gave him up,” she said. “No sense raising a bastard child.”

“How dare you?” I said, taking a step back.

The woman shrugged. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said, perhaps more worried about losing the commission from Lon’s account than hurting my feelings. “I only meant that it’s hard to raise a child these days in any circumstance, let alone out of wedlock.”

She stepped closer and pulled a white silk slip over my head, inching it snugly over my body. She folded her arms as she gave me the once-over. “You do know what happened to the last one, don’t you?”

I shook my head. “The last what?”

“Mr. Edwards’s last girl.”

I shook my head, remembering Susie, the former maid.

“She got pregnant,” she said. “The little fool. He was forced to let her go.”

I didn’t want to share Lon’s bed any more than I wanted to share his dinner table. But I would do anything to find my son. Lon was well connected. Gwen had seen him lunching with a senator. If anyone could get the police to search for Daniel, he could.

“Pull in your stomach,” the woman said. “This corset needs tightening if we’re going to get you into a gown tonight. Mr. Edwards will want you to look stunning on the dance floor.”

I took a deep breath and sucked in my stomach. I closed my eyes and thought of the last time I’d gone dancing. With Charles. I let the memory comfort me like a warm blanket.

Four Years Prior

A horn sounded outside. Caroline squealed. “Charles is here!”

I smoothed my hair before running to the window of the apartment I shared with three friends. I looked out to the street, where he sat in the front seat of his shiny gray Buick, dark hair slicked back, a quiet smile on his face. Dashing. It had been a month and a half since we’d met at the hotel. He’d walked me home that night and promised to call after his holiday in Europe. I thought about him often, despite my attempts to purge his memory from my mind—and my heart. He was wonderful, yes, but he belonged with the type of women I’d seen at the hotel—refined, dripping in jewels—not with someone who had a hole in her shoe and nary a nickel to her name. And yet when he phoned the apartment the week before, I couldn’t help but wonder, despite what he’d said at the Olympic Hotel, could a man from privilege really love a woman from poverty?

Georgia folded her arms. “It’s not fair,” she whined. “Does he have a brother?”

“Don’t distract her, Georgia,” Caroline snapped. “She has to get ready!”

I looked down at my dress, hardly what you’d call fancy, with its simple pleats and a hem I’d mended only that morning. I hoped the cobalt blue thread I’d used—the only I had—didn’t look glaringly obvious against the light blue of the dress. “Do I look all right?”

Caroline frowned. “Honey, you want to impress him, don’t you?”

I nodded.

Caroline began unfastening the buttons on my dress. “Of course you do, which is why you’re going to wear my red dress.”

“Caroline, I couldn’t,” I said. “It’s so…”

“Low cut?”

I nodded.

“Well, yes, my dear, that’s rather the point. We’re going to get you out of this potato sack.”

After Caroline had the final button undone, my dress fell to the floor, where it rested around my ankles. She walked to her closet and returned with the red dress. She held it up proudly. “He’ll love you in this.” Caroline had spent a month’s wages on it after seeing it in the window at a boutique in Pioneer Square. “Here,” she said, inching the frock over my head. It clung to my body like a tight bandage, and I tugged at the bodice self-consciously.

“There,” she said, taking a step back to gaze at me. “Stunning.”

“I don’t know, Caroline,” I said hesitantly. “Do you think it’s really me?”

“It’s you tonight,” she said, holding a beaded necklace against the nape of my neck. “They’re not real pearls, but no one will know.” I felt a shiver along my spine as she fastened the clasp.

“Perfect,” she said, stepping back again to take a final look at me. “Go on; you’ll be late.” She shooed me toward the door. “You look beautiful.”

I turned to face her. “Thank you, Caroline. I know this is your favorite dress. I’ll treat it well.”

“Spill wine on it if you want,” she said. “I’ll never wear it again, anyway.” She patted her belly. It swelled a little, revealing the early months of her pregnancy. “I had plenty of fun in it.”

In an impulsive move, Caroline had married a fisherman named Joe the week after the event at the Olympic. They’d been together, on and off, for a year, but when he’d shown up with his grandmother’s engagement ring, she’d said yes. And then, shortly after, he died in an automobile accident and she found out she was expecting his child. Caroline showed up at the apartment with all of her worldly possessions stuffed into a single suitcase. The one-bedroom flat was already cramped with three other women, but we took her in anyway. Her own parents had thrown her out.

“Oh, Caroline,” I said, tucking an arm around her waist. “You’ll wear it again. You’ll see.”

“Well,” she said with a sigh, “it’s your night. Live it up, honey.”

I nodded. “I’ll try.”



Charles waited for me on the sidewalk. He leaned against the car and watched as I walked outside.

“Hey there, doll,” an obviously drunk man called from the street. “Looking for someone to love?”

“Mind your manners!” Charles shouted to the man. “Where do you get off speaking to a lady that way?”

The man slunk back into an alley as I gave Charles a grateful smile. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” I said.

“Do you have to put up with this all the time?”

I nodded. “You get used to it after a while. Most of them are harmless.”

He shook his head, surveying the street. A homeless man kicked a tin can down the sidewalk, grumbling to himself. An old woman stood up from a bench and approached Charles. A vehicle that shiny in our part of town was a rare sight, and it attracted a crowd of onlookers like a juicy plum draws buzzing fruit flies.

“Excuse me, sir,” the woman said in almost a whisper. She held out her hand, displaying dirt-caked fingernails. “Could you spare a few cents for a hungry old woman?”

“Is that a real Buick?” a teenage boy asked, running his hand along the hood. Charles looked at me with a helpless expression.

I cleared my throat. “Pardon us,” I said with a firm voice. “We were just leaving.”

The woman nodded, taking a step back. The boy shrugged. The others continued on.

“Sorry about that,” I said once we were inside the car. “Rich people are a novelty around these parts.”

He looked conflicted. “Oh,” he said, pulling away slowly.

We drove in silence for a few moments, before Charles turned to me. “I wish I had given her something.”

“Who?”

“That woman back there,” he said. “I could have given her some money. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

I shook my head. “Well, it would take more than a few dollars to solve her problems.”

Charles nodded. “Do they hate people like me?”

“Of course they don’t,” I said, noticing the way the streetlights made his gold cuff link glisten. “You’re just from another world, that’s all. A world they don’t understand.”

Charles shook his head, as if trying to make sense of the differences between us. “I’m embarrassed,” he finally said, “that I’m so out of touch with what these people are facing.”

I touched his arm. “You’re different,” I said, looking at him in awe. Charles possessed a goodness that others in his position didn’t. His heart seemed to feel the pain of the poor—rare, when the trend among the upper class was to simply ignore them.

He stopped the car in front of a restaurant where a woman in a pale crepe dress stood outside smoking a cigarette. She puffed it elegantly through her crimson red lips, then dropped it to the sidewalk and stomped out its last embers with a thick, shiny black heel. “I thought we’d grab a little dinner at the Blue Palms,” he said. “That is, if you’re hungry.” His kind eyes smiled expectantly.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, that would be lovely.”

Charles handed his keys to the valet before proceeding to the opposite side to open my door. I felt like an heiress stepping out onto the curb, tucking my arm in his. Two women gawked at us from the sidewalk. They looked at Charles and then at me, studying me from head to toe, then whispering among themselves. I could read their eyes. Fraud. They knew I didn’t belong. I looked straight ahead, following Charles into the club.

I felt the urge to peek into the mirror on the wall to my left just to make sure I was really the woman staring back. Caroline and I had dreamed of dining at the Blue Palms a thousand times before. We knew a cocktail waitress who worked there on weekends. She’d recounted stories of the socialites and celebrities who poured through its doors. I followed Charles inside the dimly lit foyer, where chic-looking couples handed over their coats to stoic doormen.

Charles whispered something to the concierge at the desk, and he jumped up with a nervous smile. “Yes, so nice to see you again. Your regular table is waiting.”

I tried not to think about all the other women Charles had brought here before me. And there must have been a parade of them. Instead, I looked straight ahead as we followed the host down a dark corridor, lights streaming up from the floor like in the movie theaters I’d snuck into as a child. Scores of curious eyes looked out from tables all around us, wondering, watching. A band played a ballad onstage, and I kept time with the trombone with each step. One foot in front of the other. What if I trip? What if I embarrass Charles?

I felt a gentle hand on my waist, then warm breath near my neck. “I just can’t bear to sit down when this song is playing, can you?”

Goose bumps covered my arms. I knew the song, of course. “Stardust.” Caroline and I had listened to it at the record store dozens of times, until the shopkeeper had told us we had two choices: buy it or leave. Lacking the funds to purchase the record, we’d sulked our way to the door.

Charles held out his hand to me. “Shall we?”

“I’d love to,” I said, following him to the dance floor. I felt eyes piercing my back, but when Charles wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me close, my insecurities drifted away effortlessly.

“And you said you couldn’t dance,” he whispered into my ear.

“I can’t,” I replied. “You just make me look good.”

He shook his head. “You know,” he said with a serious face, “you’re really something, Vera Ray.”

Charles whisked me around the dance floor. His firm grasp and confident steps made me feel light on my feet, agile, as he dipped and twirled me. When the song ended, my cheeks flushed as he pulled me close. We stared into one another’s eyes for a moment.

“Let’s have dinner,” he said, just as the band started up another song.

We slipped into a private booth that provided a full view of the stage. The soft, tufted upholstery felt like a cloud to sit on, and with Charles by my side, the effect was otherworldly—at least, a world unfamiliar to me.

He ordered wine and rattled off a few selections from the menu to a waiter who stood before us with a crisp white towel folded across his arm.

“Have you tried oysters?” Charles asked me. “Caviar?”

I shook my head. Why pretend to have luxurious tastes when he knows I don’t?

“Good, then,” he said, turning to the waiter. “We’ll have both.”

Within moments, the waiter returned with a pewter bowl filled with what looked like shiny blackberries.

“Caviar,” Charles said, grinning.

I scrunched my nose.

The waiter next presented a platter topped with a strange array of mollusks resting on a bed of ice. A lemon wedge and an assortment of dipping sauces were artfully arranged on a second plate. I gulped.

“So,” Charles began, “you squeeze a little lemon on top, then pick up the shell, just like this. Then you let the oyster slide into your mouth.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

It occurred to me that all of this fancy food was quite silly. Why go through the trouble when you could have a fine ham sandwich? But I didn’t want to disappoint Charles. “All right,” I said skeptically. “If you say so.”

I reached for the plate and picked up one of the shells, eyeing the jagged texture and marveling at its sharp edges. My father, a fisherman, had brought an oyster shell home when I was a girl, and I’d cut my finger on its sharp edge. My mother, working the night shift at the factory, hadn’t been there to bandage it. So I tore a piece of fabric from a kitchen rag and wrapped it around the wound with enough pressure to stop the bleeding. When Mother returned from her second job, after spending her days tending to a wealthy family’s children in a privileged Seattle suburb, I held the injured finger before her. “It’s your own fault!” she barked without looking up. “You’re five years old; you should know better.” Dark shadows of fatigue hovered under her eyes. She didn’t mean it. She never meant anything she said after a long day at work. I forgave her, as I always did. And when she fell asleep in the parlor chair, in her work clothes, I pulled a blanket over her.

I held the oyster shell in my hand, feeling the sharpness on my skin, and recoiled, dropping it back onto the plate. I rubbed my index finger and eyed the jagged scar that anchored me to my past.

“Everyone’s a little bashful when they try their first oyster,” Charles said. “Let me help you.”

I let my eyes meet his, so warm, so welcoming. I’m not that little girl anymore. He put the shell to my lips, and I opened my mouth as the oyster’s cool, silky flesh rolled onto my tongue. I tasted the salt of the sea, its briny pungency, followed by the tartness of the lemon. The bite awakened my senses, opened my eyes.

“That was surprisingly good,” I said, reaching for another.



We ate. We drank. And we danced. With Charles leading, my feet carried me around the dance floor with an agility I hadn’t known I possessed.

Just as a song ended, and after a round of applause for the band, a couple approached us. The woman, with perfectly coiffed hair dyed to a beige blond, waved hello to Charles, her hand displaying a diamond engagement ring the size of a nickel. It sparkled under the stage lights as she held her fingers out to me. The man beside her, presumably her fiancé, looked at me curiously.

“I’m Delores,” she crooned, turning to Charles with a wounded look. “Charles, you didn’t tell us you had a new girlfriend. I thought you were still dating Yvonne. The two of you were—”

“Yes,” he interjected. “This is Vera. Vera Ray.”

Delores looked amused. “Of course,” she said, scrutinizing me from head to toe. “Miss Ray. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you as well,” I said, feeling a tightness in my chest.

“How did you two meet?” she continued. “At the country club?” She eyed my dress. Something told me she knew I wasn’t a member of the country club.

“No,” Charles said, “Vera and I met at—”

“At the Olympic Hotel,” I interjected. “My friend and I were there for the opening.”

Delores raised one eyebrow. “Oh?” she said, as if trying to make sense of the very idea of me at the Olympic Hotel. “Dear, tell me something.” She clasped her hand on my arm. “How ever did you get an invitation to that party? I know at least a dozen of the city’s most elite who weren’t invited.”

Charles tucked his hand around my waist and gave me a protective squeeze. “She was my guest,” he said, the confidence in his voice snuffing out any further talk of my appearance at the hotel.

“Well, then,” Delores replied, tugging at her date’s sleeve, “we’ll leave you now.” She giggled. “The way you two have been dancing you’d think you were in that dance-a-thon over on Sixth Avenue.”

Charles looked confused. “Dance-a-thon?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t have heard about it,” she said. “It’s not really your crowd.” Delores then turned to look at me.

“Perhaps it’s my kind of crowd,” I said in a moment of boldness. My cheeks burned. I knew what she was getting at: I wasn’t good enough for Charles. It was written all over my shabby dress, secondhand shoes, and unmanicured hands.

“Goodnight, Delores,” Charles said before nodding to her male companion. “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered to me as we walked back to the table.

I nodded. “Where to?”

“Vera,” he said, as if suddenly struck with a thought, “why don’t we go to that dance-a-thon?”

I shook my head. “You can’t be serious.”

“We’re an incredible dance team,” he said, grinning. “I bet we could win. Besides, I’m tired of this stuffy old place.”

“You do know what a dance-a-thon is, right?”

He looked at me with naive eyes. Here was a man who could waltz—but swing? “I think I do.”

“Couples dance for hours—sometimes all night,” I explained. “The winners are the last ones standing.”

“I’d like to be the last man standing by you,” he said, reaching for my hand.



I could hear band music billowing out from the gymnasium onto Sixth Avenue. Charles and I stood on the sidewalk staring at the double doors, where a crowd of young men puffed cigarettes, wearing shabby suits sized too small or too large.

Charles rubbed his forehead nervously. What was I thinking bringing him here? Surely none of his polo-playing friends frequented the makeshift Friday night dance hall. The men eyed Charles suspiciously as we made our way to the entrance.

“Hey, dollface,” one of them said to me. “Looking for a dance partner?”

Charles held out his hand. “She has one, thank you,” he said, putting an end to the proposition.

“Some broad you got there,” I heard the man remark as we walked inside. His voice was swallowed up by the music. But it was the sight before us that captured our attention. Couples everywhere danced with such energy, such passion. I watched as a man lifted his partner into the air and then brought her down again, whipping her from left to right like a ball on a tether.

Charles’s mouth fell open. “Wow,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“We can go if you want,” I said, looking toward the door.

“No, no,” he replied, watching a man dip his partner so low her hair skimmed the floor. “I’ve just never seen people dance like this. It’s…amazing. I want to try it. Can you do it?”

“Swing? Yeah,” I said. “Well, a little.” I took his hand, but before we could make it to the dance floor, an older woman tapped Charles on the shoulder.

“Did you register?” she asked.

“Register?” I replied.

“A nickel apiece,” she said. “Covers your admission, the cost of the photo, and a bowl of chili.”

Charles looked amused. “And a bowl of chili.”

She pointed to a desk just ahead. “You can pay over there.”

He pulled a dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to a man behind the desk.

“And your change is—”

“Keep it,” Charles said.

“Thank you, sir,” the man said, looking at Charles in astonishment. “Did Alice tell you the rules?”

He shook his head.

“We cut off admission in five minutes, so you just made it. Rules are as follows: No sitting. No eating. No drinking. Dancers must not stop dancing or stand in one place longer than three seconds or face elimination. The last couple to remain dancing wins the kitty here.” He pointed to a glass canning jar filled with nickels. “Photos are just to your left.”

Charles and I walked a few paces and stood side by side against a white curtain.

“Smile now,” the photographer called out from behind his camera with an elaborate flash. It was easy to smile with Charles by my side.

“There,” the photographer said. “If you come back next Friday, the photo will be waiting for you.”

We approached the dance floor timidly. Charles clasped his hands around my waist and began moving his feet clumsily. I smiled, taking his hands in mine and showing him the basic swing step.

“Like this,” I said, moving my feet in time with the music. I waved at Lola, a former schoolmate, in the distance. She looked shocked seeing me in Charles’s arms. Shocked and jealous, maybe.

“This is harder than it looks,” he said, attempting the move again and landing on my right foot. “Sorry.”

“You’re doing well,” I said. It felt good being the one teaching him something.

After a while, Charles got the hang of swing, and he twirled me around the floor with the confidence of an old pro.

“I can see why you like this better than the waltz,” he said, grinning. “It’s a heck of a lot more fun.”

I felt a bead of sweat on my brow. “So what do people like you do for fun?”

He flashed a half grin. “You act like I’m from a different planet.”

“Well,” I said, wiping my brow, “you are, in a sense.” I gazed out at the regular folks on the dance floor—sons of factory workers, daughters of dressmakers. And then there was Charles, the son of one of the wealthiest families in the city, and perhaps in the country, by Caroline’s estimation.

“Oh, come now,” he said. “Don’t you think that’s being a bit dramatic?”

A diminutive figure entered the gymnasium, and I recognized her instantly: Ginger Clayton, an old friend. Her younger sister had died six months before because her family couldn’t afford the medicine to save her. Suddenly I didn’t feel like dancing anymore. How could I dine on oysters and caviar while people like little Emma Clayton had lost their lives?

I let go of his hand. “Don’t you see?”

He tucked my hand in his again. “Careful,” he said. “We’ll be disqualified if we stop. What was it again? The three-second rule?”

I looked away.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” I said. “Well, yes. I just wish the poor didn’t have to suffer so.”

The band slowed its tempo, and I was glad for it. It felt strange to be having such a serious conversation when dancing at such a frenetic pace.

“Listen,” I continued, seeing concern register in his eyes, “I do believe you care, and I know you’re different than most people in your position. I just wish more people with your privileged background cared about the plight of the poor. Times are tough. The widow who lives on the floor below me has to leave her children alone all day while she works because there’s no one to care for them. Perfectly respectable people are out on the street, begging for handouts. All this while the rich…”

“While the rich do nothing about it?” he said.

“Yes,” I replied, nodding.

“Well, you’re right,” he said with a look of conviction. “We’re a despicable lot. I’m the first to admit that. My own parents won’t even pay the household help a living wage. Most have to take second jobs just to feed their families. It’s not right. I’ve tried to speak to my father. He won’t hear of it. He himself came from poverty. Worked his way up from a farming town in Eastern Washington. He’s a self-made man. He believes that hard work and discipline is the ticket out of poverty. In his mind, anyone can make their fortune.”

I shook my head. “But that’s not always true.”

“I know.”

“What he doesn’t realize is that decent, hardworking people are down on their luck,” I continued. “There aren’t enough jobs to go around. People who want to work can’t.”

Charles looked away. “I don’t know what to tell you, Vera. I don’t like it any more than you do.”

“I don’t mean to sound like I’m blaming you, or your father,” I said, worrying I’d overstepped my bounds. It’s just that I was taught that if you have two of something, you share it with someone else. Why can’t the privileged do more to help the needy?”

Charles nodded. “That widow you spoke of, what’s her name?”

“Laura,” I said. “Her name’s Laura.”

“Where does she work?”

“In a garment factory in the industrial district.”

“How many children does she have?”

The band began playing a faster song, so we picked up the pace. “At least five,” I said. “The eldest is barely nine years old. It’s a terrible situation. I brought a loaf of bread down to her last week. The place was an awful mess. Squalor, really.”

Charles looked at me tenderly. “I want to help her.”

“How?”

“For one, let’s get her out of that wretched factory job so she can care for her family,” he said.

“To do that she’ll need—”

“Funds, yes. I’ll take care of it.”

I smiled from a place deep inside. “You will?”

“Yes,” he said. “But she must not know of my involvement.”

“I can help,” I offered.

“Good.”

I nestled my head on his lapel. “That’s an honorable thing to do.”

“No,” he said, stroking my hair, “it’s the right thing to do, and I’m ashamed I haven’t done more things like it.”

Charles twirled me across the floor before I rebounded like a fire hose back into his arms. The music stopped for a moment as I looked into his eyes. His gaze made me feel tingly everywhere, and when he leaned toward me, I let my lips meet his.

“There you are!” a shrill female voice echoed across the dance floor. I took a step back from Charles and watched as a woman approached. Her tan silk dress and hat trimmed with white feathers looked like a page torn from one of the discarded Vogue magazines Georgia sometimes brought home from her housekeeping job. In the ragtag gymnasium, this woman stood out like a swan in a coal mine.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Charles,” she continued with a chastising tone.

He divided his attention between the approaching woman and a man who appeared before us wagging his finger. “I’m afraid you’ve paused too long,” he said. “Please step off the dance floor. You’ve been disqualified.”

“Sorry, Vera,” Charles said to me. “It was my fault.”

The woman pushed through a crowd of people, and Charles and I followed. “Why is my sister here?” he said under his breath.

Away from the dancers, he folded his arms. “Josie?” His tone wasn’t exactly welcoming.

“Wow, I didn’t think I’d actually find you here,” she said, annoyed. She tucked a lock of her perfectly coiffed brown hair under her hat before smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her dress. “I went looking for you over at the Blue Palms and Delores said”—she looked at me with disapproving eyes and took a deep, frustrated breath—“anyway, there isn’t much time. It’s Mother. She’s taken ill.”

Charles dropped my hand. “Oh no,” he said. “What happened?”

“The doctor’s with her now,” she replied. “But you need to come quick.”

Charles turned to me. “I’m sorry, Vera, I have to go. I’ll…I’ll call on you soon.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. “Go.”

I watched Charles and Josie walk briskly out of the gymnasium. They disappeared in the shadows of the night before I turned back to the other dancers on the floor. Only a few dozen remained. Beads of sweat dripped from their brows. We would have won, Charles and I. We would have danced until dawn.



“My, aren’t you a vision, Vera!” Lon exclaimed when he saw me in the lobby. I hardly recognized my own name on his breath. And when I caught a glimpse of myself in the gilded mirror on the wall to my left, a society girl stared back. My waist looked inches thinner, suctioned in by the fancy undergarments beneath the blue silk dress. My breasts brimmed out of the bodice in a way that made me feel like a roast turkey on a platter, buttered and browned and ready to be devoured. I held my hand to my chest self-consciously.

“Your beauty is dizzying,” Lon said, slipping a possessive arm around my waist.

I didn’t like his hand there, or anywhere. I swallowed hard. I can do this. For Daniel. If I played my cards right, Lon might use his resources to help me find my son. I would be his dinner guest. I would smile and look pretty. I would do anything, really, if it brought Daniel home.