CLARA
“You wouldn’t believe it from how she looks in her films, but she’s a tiny little thing,” Parker explained, swilling his martini. “Barely five feet tall.”
“Really?” Clara asked with more interest than she felt.
“Really! But the woman has presence, all right. She may be small, but Gloria Swanson fills every room she enters with that wondrous charisma of hers.”
Why did Parker think his stories needed to be dotted with celebrities to be interesting? It was pathetic. “Mmm. Was she wearing her peacock feathers when you met her?”
“Ostrich, actually.”
Clara pasted a smile on her face. When she’d first come to New York what felt like a lifetime ago, Parker’s association with one of Clara’s fashion idols would’ve earned him at least a dozen points on the potential-beau scale. He’s an absolute sheik, ex-Clara would have told her girlfriends at home. He dresses well, he took me to a swanky spot, and he even knows Gloria Swanson.
But now Clara was seeing things with clearer eyes: So he’d interviewed a celebrity; that was part of his job, wasn’t it? What was the big fuss? In the end celebrities were just people like everyone else.
“She’ll look fantastic on this month’s cover, don’t you think?” he asked, but didn’t wait for Clara’s response. “We’ll have our highest sales to date, I’m willing to bet.” Parker went on and on, happy to bask in the glow of his own success.
Clara looked out at the other diners. The Colony was Parker’s favorite restaurant. It was a lovely place in an understated way—silver sconces on the white wood-paneled walls, ivory pillars, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. White cloths covered the tables, and vases of poppies stood in the center of each. A person wouldn’t even know that the Prohibition amendment had been passed in a spot like this. The restaurant counted too many government officials among its regulars to ever have to worry about a gin bust.
But people didn’t come to the Colony for the décor or the booze—they came for the stars. Clara had already spotted two Vanderbilts and three senators. Louise Brooks, the silent-film actress, demurely sipped a glass of amber liquid at a corner table, the ends of her short, dark bob flawless against her porcelain cheeks.
Perhaps the banquette getting the most looks was that of Babe Ruth, the famed baseball player and unofficial King of New York. The big man looked as at home in a suit as he did in his Yankees uniform. He had his arm around the beautiful young girl sitting beside him—a girl who was definitely not his wife.
Clara had wanted to sit in one of the upholstered banquettes in the back, but Parker had been quick to request the table by the window—where all the patrons couldn’t help but see them on walking through the restaurant’s double doors.
For what seemed like the thousandth time that evening, someone walked over to the table. “Parker, old boy! How are you?” The man speaking was young and handsome, with a doe-eyed girl on his arm. The girl was far too young to be wearing so many diamonds.
Parker sprang from his seat. “Robert Paddington! Clara, this is an old college buddy of mine, plays the Wall Street game now. Robert, you’ll be pleased to meet Clara Knowles. Remember all the stories we used to hear about her?”
Robert reached over to kiss Clara’s hand. “The Queen of the Shebas, of course! Looking as beautiful as the stories say.”
“Thank you.” Her sleeveless black silk crepe evening dress had bands of Oriental-patterned gold lamé and a two-tiered hem. The neckline was respectably high, but wide armholes gave just the right flash of skin whenever Clara moved to lift her martini.
“That’s right! She and I are together now,” Parker said, puffing his chest out proudly. First a degree from Columbia, then a career as a successful magazine editor, then a famous flapper for a girlfriend: all stepping-stones to becoming the rich and interesting man that Parker so longed to be.
“We work together,” Clara corrected. A few fancy dinners—most of which were spent discussing work—did not make the two of them a couple, not in her book.
While Parker made small talk with Robert and his lady friend, Clara’s thoughts drifted back to a dinner date nowhere near as sophisticated as this one. It had been a week after Clara had arrived in New York. She and Marcus had lounged on the East River ferry, quietly baking underneath the afternoon sun.
“Now you can proudly tell your friends that you’ve been inside the Statue of Liberty!” Marcus had exclaimed with an arm slung over her shoulder. “Explored her every nook and cranny. Compromised her virtue by climbing—”
“Marcus!” Clara swatted him and laughed. She peered out at the aquamarine statue, which was slowly becoming smaller and smaller. “I like it much more at a distance. Up close it’s just stairs, stairs, and more stairs.”
“With a fantastic view at the top, though, you have to admit.”
“And a fantastically hot sun pounding down on us,” Clara replied, tired and cranky. While very fashionable, cloche hats did next to nothing to protect a girl against sunburn. “Be honest—am I red all over?”
Marcus turned to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and surveyed her. “Yes. Red as a ripe tomato.” He kissed one of her cheeks lightly with his velvet-soft lips. “You are quite possibly the most hideous sight I’ve ever seen.” He kissed her other cheek. “You should be glad there are no children on this boat. Their screams would be deafening! The horror!”
“You’re one to talk,” Clara said, and flicked his red nose.
“Ouch!”
“You look like a dipsomaniac. Or like you have a fever.” Sunburned Marcus might have been even more adorable than Regular Marcus.
“Just the fever of my love for you, darling,” he replied with a grin. Then he gave her a kiss that made her forget all about her sunburn.
When they reached shore, they were too tired to journey back to Brooklyn Heights to look for a proper restaurant. “We probably shouldn’t expose you to respectable society, as a courtesy,” Marcus said.
So they found a dingy joint near the Fulton Ferry Landing, where they had a dinner of greasy burgers, a bucket of fries, and a shared chocolate milk shake.
The food was delicious in the way only cheap, greasy food could be. Through the restaurant’s smudged windows, they watched the sun set behind the Manhattan skyline and the way the streetlights glinted off the water. Afterward they walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, and when they reached the first of the arches, Marcus kissed her with only the moon and river as an audience.
The entire date had cost about as much as Clara’s appetizer at the Colony. It had been one of the best dates Clara had ever had—magical exactly because it was so ordinary.
Now, Clara peered across the table at handsome, tedious Parker, who was rehashing the Gloria Swanson story for his college buddy. Unlike Parker, Marcus couldn’t have cared less about movie stars or celebrities or Clara’s old, raucous life. He only wanted to be with her because of her: the person Clara hadn’t even been sure was actually there beneath all the glitter. Marcus had showed her that she was still real and interesting once all the witty double-talk and sideways glances were stripped away.
And she had let him go. Now he was marrying someone else.
Parker’s friends finally left. “I’m about finished with my pheasant—how about you?”
Clara nodded. “Yes, it was delicious.”
“Shall I order you another martini before we head out?” He raised his glass to her. “They’re the very best in the city.”
Clara drained the last sip of her drink. “Are they, now? They’re a little cloudy for my taste, really.”
He hiked an eyebrow and grinned. Parker, it seemed, was the sort of man who loved a dissatisfied woman. Clara had found that young men who came to early, large success with comparatively little struggle usually did. “Hmm. Well, I just got a silver-plated shaker and haven’t had the chance to test it out yet. Shall we try to give the Colony a run for its money?”
Just a few moments ago Clara had been eagerly awaiting the end of the date. But the image of Marcus and his perfect little fiancée popped up in her mind. The Marcus who’d kissed her sunburned cheeks was lost to her now. Clara could be heartbroken alone, or she could have some company. Even if that company was Parker.
“All right,” she said. “But there will be no shaking. I’m a girl who likes her martinis stirred.”
Clara had thought the view from Parker’s office was good, but the view from his apartment put it to shame.
Through the many floor-to-ceiling windows in Parker’s living room Clara could see the wide expanse of Central Park and the lights of the city floating around it. The room was filled with oak bookcases, and framed articles hung on the walls. A long leather couch curved in an L-shape across a Persian rug, and the dimmed lighting gave everything a lush, classy feel. Parker was a man with real taste. There was no question about that.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Parker stood uncomfortably close to her in front of the window, his arm pressing against hers. “I had a bidding war with Richard Whitney from the New York Stock Exchange over this place, you know. He put up some real cabbage, but I won in the end. I couldn’t lose out on this view.”
God, did he ever stop bragging? “Yeah, it’s jake,” she mumbled, bored.
“So, how’s that cousin of yours doing since we sprang her from the big house?”
Clara shrugged and moved over to put some distance between them. “She’s out of town, so I haven’t heard much from her.” Just a postcard from Long Island: I’ll be out of the city for a while—can’t really say why—but I’m doing fine and I miss you! “She’s taking the train into the city for a day week after next and we have plans to get lunch—I’ll give you an update then.”
“Just a day? What for?”
“She has a dress fitting for this wedding she’s in,” Clara replied. She hoped Parker didn’t ask her whose wedding. Talking to Parker about Marcus was the last thing she wanted to do right now.
“Oh, the Eastman wedding?” Parker asked, twisting something in Clara’s chest. “How is that old beau of yours?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Clara said curtly.
“The sap’s probably busy flunking his way out of Columbia. Family money can only take you so far—unless he hires someone else to sit his exams for him.”
Clara scowled. Marcus was one of the cleverest people she knew. When they’d been together she’d loved nothing more than wandering through the Brooklyn Museum with him and listening to his commentary.
On one visit they’d stopped in front of a painting of a worried-looking oarsman in a top hat, rowing down a river. “I wonder what he’s thinking about,” Clara had said.
“Well, that’s obvious,” Marcus replied. “It’s windy, and he’s wishing he could hold his top hat on his head to keep it from flying off. But he needs both arms for rowing! Poor man. That’s why I could never be an oarsman—I’m nothing without my top hat.”
And yet in front of a painting by Frederick Childe Hassam of New York in winter, Marcus had been serious. “We’ll have to come back and look at this again once it’s snowing outside. We’ll be so tempted to complain about the cold and chill that we’ll forget how lucky we are to be here for it. But look at it! New York’s at its best covered in snow. Sometimes you need paintings to remind you to enjoy life’s beauty, you know?”
But Clara and Marcus hadn’t even made it through the summer. If Marcus went back to look at that Hassam painting during the winter, he’d be doing it with his wife.
“Shouldn’t we be drinking martinis about now?” Clara needed some booze to flush Marcus’s handsome face from her mind.
“Let me just chill the glasses.” Parker leaned in for a kiss, but she turned her head so he caught her cheek instead. It might have been a mistake to come here. She and Parker had never kissed, and Clara was beginning to think that she didn’t want that to change.
While Parker was off in the kitchen, Clara crossed into the wood-paneled study. She was surprised at the towers of old letters, papers, and invitations heaped over the oak surface of the desk. Parker was fastidiously neat in the office—it was nice to see a bit of disorder in his sleek, polished life. With barely a scruple she picked up one of the smaller piles and shuffled through it.
She paused when she reached an already-ripped-open envelope with an invitation lying on top.
Celebrate the theater, art, love, and life!
Forrest Hamilton invites
Parker Richards and Clara Knowles
to join him for a night of revelry
at 8:00 p.m.
on September 13, 1924
at 6 Shorecliff Place, Great Neck, Long Island
Clara picked up the envelope and saw that it was dated August 5—back when Clara had still responded to Parker’s each and every dinner invitation with a resounding no. She clenched the invitation in a tight grip and fought the urge to tear it into pieces. Parker had been bragging to this Forrest character and Lord knew who else that he had managed to bag the Queen of the Flappers.
Clara had known that her editor was arrogant and self-satisfied, but this was a whole other level. Who else had Parker told about this “relationship” of theirs? And what had he said? He must’ve made things out to be pretty serious between them if someone was putting both their names on a party invitation.
“Clara,” Parker called from the living room. “Where did you disappear to?”
She took a few deep breaths, then smoothed a mask of cheeky flirtation over her displeasure. She sauntered back into the living room. “You didn’t offer me a tour, so I had to give myself one.”
Parker was standing behind the expansive oak bar against the wall. He’d laid his navy blazer over one of the leather-upholstered barstools and stood in just his trousers and a silky burgundy shirt. Parker’s dark brows were drawn in concentration over his pale green eyes. The martini shaker stood on the bar with its lid off, next to a bowl of ice and two unmarked bottles. He lifted one of the bottles and put it down, then lifted the other.
Clara was amused by his floundering. “Parker Richards. You don’t know how to make a martini, do you?”
He smiled back. “But I’m very good at ordering them.”
She joined him behind the bar and picked up the shaker. “You do realize this makes me more of a man than you are.”
“You look remarkably good in that dress, then, considering.”
Showing Parker how to mix martinis might have been fun if Clara hadn’t been consumed by the urge to throw her drink in his pompous face once she was finished. And once he was soaked in gin and vermouth, Clara would berate Parker for his idiotic presumptions and the lies he’d spread about the nature of their relationship. She would tell him that she hardly even liked him—and that she could never be even a fraction as in love with him as he was with himself.
But instead, she showed him how adding a dash of orange bitters made all the difference to a martini. And when he mentioned Forrest’s party on Saturday, Clara feigned complete ignorance.
As satisfying as it would be to get her revenge now, Clara couldn’t forget the fact that Parker was her boss. Throwing a drink in his face would definitely be grounds for dismissal. Without the income from her column, Clara would barely be able to get by. Not to mention the fact that if Parker fired her, her writing career would be over practically before it had begun.
So she’d have to be crafty about it. She’d go to this Great Neck party. She’d don her flapper best and flutter her lashes at all Parker’s rich, influential friends.
But soon enough, Parker would wish he’d never met Clara. Much less claimed to date her.
LORRAINE
“You make the best coffee in New York, Becks,” Lorraine remarked, rising from her bed to accept the steaming mug from her roommate. “Or at least, you make the best coffee in this dormitory.”
Becky tucked her yellow curls behind her ears and smiled. She sat on her own bed, neatly settled her pink pleated skirt over her legs, and took a sip from her own mug. “Thank you. I’ll have to bake my shortbread to go with it next time.”
“Ha! Shortbread!” Lorraine exclaimed, slapping her knee. “You and your jokes.”
Becky raised an eyebrow. “I’m being serious, though, I absolutely love—”
“Okay, okay,” Lorraine said, cutting Becky off. “Enough with the jokes, I might throw up from laughing so much.”
Lorraine had expected the worst when she’d met her blonde roommate nearly a month earlier. She wasn’t a beauty—certainly not an exotic one like Lorraine—but her dimples and tiny nose were nearly head-cheerleader adorable. Lorraine had been sure Becky would reject her modern ways and innovative fashion sense just the way the debs in Chicago had. But Becky turned out to be absolutely hilarious. Like those shortbread jokes—hysterical!
Becky was committed, too—she covered every surface on her side of the room with lace doilies and owned a whopping five aprons. Someone who didn’t know her as well as Lorraine would think Becky actually liked all this matronly hooey. But the rumors of Lorraine’s mob past that caused other Barnard girls to turn up their noses didn’t seem to faze Becky one bit. So Becky couldn’t possibly be a real Mrs. Grundy—she was just an amazing comedienne.
“You know what would go even better with this coffee than shortbread?” Lorraine looked through the open window at the quad, where a group of girls lounged on a picnic blanket. They were giggling so loudly that they had to be sneaking sips from a flask. Either that or they were crazy people, and a respectable institution like Barnard didn’t accept crazy people. “A shot of brandy, maybe two.”
Becky rolled her brown eyes. “Lorraine, you know we can’t risk getting caught drinking in the dormitory.”
Lorraine set her mug on her cluttered end table and lay back on the floral bedspread. “I can’t help it! It’s Saturday—everyone knows this is a day for drinking!”
“It’s Saturday morning.”
“Still. If those mob rumors killed any hope I had for a social life, then this Drought is dancing on its grave.” Lorraine hadn’t frequented a gin joint since school started, though not for a lack of trying. All the police in New York knew Lorraine as a shady character, while speakeasy proprietors thought she was a rat. Most of them had her picture on the wall, reminding the burly men who guarded the doors not to let her in—which was so tragically unfair, seeing as how it wasn’t even a flattering picture.
Lorraine had initially named the dry spell “The Great Drought of 1924.” But that was kind of a mouthful, especially considering how often she complained about it. This unfortunate period could go back to its original name when she wrote her memoirs.
Lorraine had hoped her summer spent managing the Opera House would improve her popularity at Barnard. “Hey, look!” everyone would exclaim. “There goes the dame who helped the bureau catch those mobsters! I knew she was brave, but I never expected her to be beautiful, too!” But that lying phony Clara Knowles had destroyed Lorraine’s chances. Thanks to the not-so-flattering articles Clara wrote for the Manhattanite, the popular girls at Barnard wanted nothing to do with Lorraine. And why? Because Lorraine had wanted revenge against everyone’s new favorite flapper, Gloria Carmody.
What a joke. If anyone would listen, Lorraine would explain that she was the flapper queen. Gloria hadn’t even bobbed her hair until Lorraine made her! Gloria hadn’t known how to dance anything other than a boring old box step! Gloria had worn dresses that went down to her ankles! Until Lorraine stepped in and saved her. But now people acted like Gloria was some kind of … hero. It was enough to make a girl want to punch someone.
“I think taking some time away from booze has been good for you,” Becky observed. “You’re so far ahead on all our coursework and reading—you even managed to finish Paradise Lost early, isn’t that right?”
Lorraine nodded. “I wish I’d paradise lost my copy of it,” she muttered, waiting for Becky to laugh. When she didn’t, it only made Lorraine want a drink even more. “Maybe then I’d have had an excuse not to read all ten million pages of it.”
“You’ve got to admit sobriety has given you a lot more free time.”
“Yeah, too much free time.” Lorraine picked up a white woven pillow and tossed it onto her roommate’s bed. “I’m knitting, Becks. Knitting.”
The truth was that Lorraine was actually very good at school—there had always been so many distractions, though, and why study biology in a textbook when you could get up close and personal with an actual boy? Sadly, Lorraine had more than enough time on her hands these days to excel academically. Oh, how she wished she could change that!
“ ‘They say a clean conscience makes a soft pillow, but this one suits me fine,’ ” Becky read from the embroidery on the pillow and giggled. “That’s funny, Raine!”
“It would be funnier if we were drunk,” Lorraine replied. “Have you heard about any parties or anything? Just because we have all the same classes doesn’t mean you have to be my warden, you know.”
Becky gave her a long, hard look. “Well, it is the weekend.” A slow smile appeared on her face. “And since you’re persona non grata in the city, why not come out with me to Long Island?”
“It sounds long. As in and boring.”
“Only if you go to the wrong parties. The real shoe spinners are on the estates out there, and tonight there’s a big to-do down in Great Neck. You heard of a fellow called Forrest Hamilton?”
Lorraine caught her reflection in the mirror and fluffed her bob. “The Broadway producer? Sure.” The society pages were thick these days with photos of and stories about the handsome young entrepreneur.
“Well, the party’s at his house.”
Lorraine raised her eyebrows. “And you’re invited? Why did he invite you?” Sure, Becky had a more thriving social life than Lorraine’s, but study groups and coffee klatches didn’t count, did they? Who would’ve expected Becky to have such an impressive acquaintance? “Becks, you’ve been holding out on me!”
Becky laughed. “Not exactly. My friend Dorothy’s brother starred in Bug-Eyed Betty, Forrest’s first show, and he was able to snag us invitations. Dorothy says it’s going to be the biggest bash since Sodom and Gomorrah got burned up.”
Raine leaped from her bed to hug Becky, nearly spilling coffee all over her roommate’s pristine bedspread. Finally, a real night out! “Thank you, thank you, thank you! You have no idea the public service you’re doing.” She sat down beside Becky. “Without you I probably would’ve been stuck studying flash cards with Melvin.”
“Oh, right, your friend from Columbia. You should invite him along! He’s cute.”
Lorraine almost choked on her coffee. “Seriously, Becks, you should go down to the Ziegfeld and try out your comedy act there. That stuff is gold! You and Eddie Cantor will be best pals in no time.”
Becky crossed her arms and pouted. “I’m being serious! Maybe he’s not a big six or anything, but you’ve got to admit Melvin’s got a handsome face.”
“You can’t even see his face behind those enormous glasses,” Lorrain muttered. She tried to imagine Melvin wandering among the glittering young things in his bow tie and sweater vest. “Trust me. He’ll be much happier with the flash cards.”
Besides, she wouldn’t want to be seen with Melvin if Marcus happened to be at the party. Not that she was still thinking about him … that much.
“He has a car, though, doesn’t he? Dorothy and I were planning to take the train out, but it would be so much more stylish if we drove. Plus we might need someone to get us home safely if we get too tight,” Becky said.
“Good point.” Always thinking, that Becky! No matter how sweet and dopey she might look, the girl had some real smarts underneath all those curls.
“It’ll be such fun!” Becky exclaimed, and her small lips stretched into a gleeful smile. She clapped her dainty little hands. “We’ll dance the Collegiate Shag and show those starched shirts how to cut a rug.”
Lorraine narrowed her eyes. She’d once prided herself on knowing all the hottest new dances, but that had been in the pre-Drought days. “How does that one go again?”
Becky stuck out her lip and blew her bangs off her forehead. “Honestly, Lorraine, how can you have worked in a club and not learned it?”
She popped up from her bed and took Lorraine’s hand to pull her up as well. She raised her left arm. “Okay, you need to hold your right arm so your elbow is touching my left elbow.”
Lorraine did so but felt awkward. “Are you sure? That’s a lot higher than couples usually hold their arms.…”
“Mmm-hmm—that way your arms don’t get in the way of all the hopping around in the dance.” Becky did a zippy combination of kicks and hops on her own and put all doubt out of Lorraine’s mind. Becky was a surprisingly good dancer, and Lorraine couldn’t wait to show the bouncy dance off on the floor.
She put one hand on Becky’s shoulder and held her other hand. Then she began to follow her roommate through the steps.
“Well, no, you kick your legs behind you when we’re close like this, Raine,” Becky said when Lorraine whacked her in the shin. “Let’s try again.”
They pulled apart and held hands, and now Becky said she was allowed to kick forward. Becky spun her around and Lorraine nearly ran straight into her. “Maybe we should go slower.…”
Lorraine continued dancing without Becky, swinging her legs back and forth. “No, I think I’m catching on just fine!”
“Well, that’s better,” Becky said. “What you need to remember is …” Her eyes fixed on something behind Lorraine. She gave a low whistle. “Who’s the Handsome Dan? Does he go to Columbia? I feel like I’ve seen him around.”
Lorraine followed her roommate’s eyes to the photo of Marcus tacked to the bulletin board above her bed. “Oh, that’s Marcus Eastman.” She paused. How to explain Marcus Eastman to Becky? How did Lorraine even explain Marcus to herself? “He’s an old … friend. A very close friend.” She stopped again. Had they ever been more than friends? Lorraine had certainly wanted them to be. And Becky didn’t know one way or the other, did she? “We have a lot of history together,” she added. Would it be too much to wink?
Becky scanned the wedding invitation and sighed. “Wow, the Plaza? Did every wedding invite have a photograph? That’s rich business. This swell must have a lot of dough.”
“Mmm, no extravagance is too extravagant for old Lillian and George,” Lorraine said, as though she and the Eastmans were particularly close. “Even their servants are dipped in gold.”
Becky pulled the photo down and examined it. A wrinkle appeared between her pale brows. “What is he doing with Deirdre Van Doren? She’s a total gold digger. She tried to get Francis Chase to marry her, but only for his money. He’s none too sharp, but even he got smart to her ways and got rid of her.”
Lorraine’s ears pricked up. Deirdre Van Doren—who was that? “But that’s not her name.” Lorraine unfolded the invitation. “See? Her name’s Anastasia Rijn.” She cocked her head. “Do you think you’re supposed to pronounce the j?”
Becky let out a tiny cough. “I think you can pronounce it however you want because that’s not her name. I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts that this girl is Deirdre Van Doren.” Becky glanced down at the silver watch wound around her wrist. “Well, anyway, we should get going in a few hours and I still need to pick up my dress from the tailor. Don’t forget to invite Melvin!”
As Becky scurried out the door, Lorraine looked back at the invitation in her hands. What in the world was Marcus getting himself into?
Oh, how Lorraine had missed slipping into the perfect party dress!
Her fingers hungrily climbed over the gold lamé, deep green satin, pale rose silk chiffon, sparkling silver sequins, and fluffy black feathers that lived inside her closet.…
In the end she pulled out a fire-engine-red number covered entirely in tiers of fringe. The bodice dipped into a low V in the front and back, and the skirt barely reached her knees. It was one of the more scandalous dresses Lorraine owned and was perfect for her brief return to the wild life she’d missed so much these past weeks.
She barely recognized the raven-haired, oxblood-lipped, sophisticated flapper who greeted her in the mirror. She loved the way the light caught her dangling diamond earrings, how her bob curved against her cheek and softened the sharp angles of her face. Lorraine still had it after a few weeks of forced retirement. She could hardly wait to see the reactions of the boys at the party.
Becky was adorable in a vanilla silk chiffon dress. Rhinestones dripped along the dress’s neckline and dropped waist. Ho hum! Her roommate was cute, but she was certainly not the sultry vixen Lorraine saw when she looked at herself in the mirror. Becky would get all the dull, wholesome suitors, while the more intriguing boys would be entranced by Lorraine’s irresistible mystique.
Or that was the plan, anyway.
The two girls stood in front of the wide mirror to put the finishing touches on their makeup, and Becky glanced at Lorraine. “I can’t wait!” Becky said, settling a pearl headband over her short hair. “Do you have some pearl earrings to go with this?”
“Top right drawer of my desk.”
Becky opened the drawer and began to search through it. “You should really try to organize your things better, Raine. How do you ever find anything?” She pulled a pair of antique opera glasses out of the drawer. “And what on earth are these for?”
Lorraine laughed. “My parents practically forced them on me, along with their season tickets to the Met. I never could understand why people get so excited about watching a boring musical.”
“Ah, here they are,” Becky said, holding a pair of pearl studs triumphantly. “I hope we find some fellows with shiny hair tonight. How about you, Raine? What do you like most in a man?”
“A pulse,” Lorraine answered, making Becky laugh.
But it was true. After weeks of no one but Melvin for male company (and he barely counted), any of the upper-class party guests would do for a bit of necking. Besides, Forrest Hamilton was a rich, handsome man. It stood to reason that his friends would be rich and handsome as well. For a second, she thought of Hank—how he’d kissed her underneath the overturned boat in Central Park, told her she was beautiful.
But that had all been one big lie.
Lorraine glanced at the photo invitation on the bulletin board one more time. If what Becky said was true, Marcus couldn’t know his fiancée very well. Maybe this was how she would get him to forgive her. If she saved Marcus from a sham marriage, he’d be so grateful he’d have to be her friend again, right?
Lorraine missed the days she, Gloria, and Marcus used to spend walking through Astor Square Park or lounging around the Carmody mansion, gossiping and joking. She might never get Gloria back, but there was still hope for her and Marcus.
And once the Barnard girls and Columbia boys saw her palling around with Marcus, they would want—nay, beg to be her friend!
She would find out the dirt on this Anastasia woman as soon as she got back to New York. But now was the time for fun, at long last.
“Are you ready to go, Raine?” Becky asked.
Lorraine snapped her black beaded purse shut. “Ready?” she asked with a smile. “I think the better question would be: Is this party ready for me?”
GLORIA
Gloria could feel sweet jazz pulsing through the walls.
She leaned against one of the many maple bookcases in Forrest Hamilton’s library, listening to the sounds of the party next door. She’d felt so glamorous when she’d left the guest room twenty minutes earlier, outfitted in her favorite of all the dresses Hank had sent: a Boué Soeurs dress of the deepest pink, which brought out the rosiness in her complexion. Purple beading ran in vertical stripes down the length of the dress, and its midsection was covered with white beaded flowers. She wore a simple white beaded headdress and pink velvet heels by Pietro Yantorny.
But standing across from Ruby and Forrest, Gloria felt like an ugly duckling. Ruby looked heart-stoppingly beautiful in a flesh-colored cotton tulle evening dress with a fishtail train and silver beading. A rhinestone evening cap covered most of her hair—only a few dark, wavy tendrils framed her delicate face. Forrest was dapper in a tuxedo. His waistcoat and bow tie were just a shade darker than his white shirt, and a red rose was pinned to his lapel.
Forrest touched Ruby’s hand lightly, letting his fingers linger there. “Goodness, you’re shaking! I would’ve thought singing onstage would be old hat for you by now.”
Ruby smiled back, and her dark eyes positively glowed. Gloria was beginning to wish she hadn’t accompanied Ruby “backstage.” Ruby wouldn’t have to sing for another hour—she’d go on between the Blue Rhythm Orchestra and the famous singer Paul Solomon. Forrest certainly had quite the lineup for his party.
“I still always get nervous,” Ruby confessed. “It’s what I love most about performing—the frightening thrill of it all.” A flush crept up Ruby’s neck. Forrest still hadn’t removed his hand from hers. Now it was clear: Forrest’s feelings for Ruby weren’t as unrequited as Gloria had previously thought.
Ruby suddenly tore her eyes from the young millionaire. “Don’t you agree, Gloria?”
“Considering I’ve only ever worked for gangsters, I’m looking forward to a far less frightening singing career from now on,” Gloria joked. She waited for a laugh, or even a chuckle, but got none. Forrest and Ruby were back to gazing at each other with their matching, nearly black eyes.
Watching those two stare at each other twisted something in Gloria’s chest.
She thought of falling in love with Jerome while he gave her vocal lessons back at the Green Mill in Chicago. She could still feel his hand, firm and strong, right beneath her rib cage. He’d been showing her where her diaphragm was, but Gloria hadn’t been able to focus on anything but his hand and the way it, the way he, made her feel. Gloria could see that the same sort of love was blossoming between Forrest and Ruby.
Too bad Ruby was already married.
“Ruby?” Marty called out, bursting through the library’s side door. There was a brief thunderclap of chatter and laughter from the party guests next door before the door slammed closed. In a tweed suit nowhere near formal enough, Marty looked dull and cheap and tacky.
“Yes?” Ruby said, moving a few inches away from Forrest.
Marty’s cheeks were red, his forehead scrunched up. “What’s this I hear about you singing tonight?”
“I asked her to,” Forrest responded quickly. He made an attempt at his usual charming laugh, but it sounded hollow. “It seems a crime to have Ruby Hayworth here and not have her sing, doesn’t it?”
Marty glared at the taller, younger man. “You think we give the milk away for free? This is a Broadway star you’re talking about! Ruby doesn’t wail without a contract.”
Ruby turned to her husband, eyes wide in dismay. “Marty, what’s one song?”
“You gonna pay those colored boys out there a fee but let my wife go on free of charge? I don’t think so.” Marty seized her arm with his pudgy hand. “She’s a professional. Come on, Ruby.”
She gave Forrest a helpless look as Marty dragged her out the door.
For a moment Forrest looked absolutely crestfallen—his dark eyes were enormous, as though he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Then his brows lowered, his full lips leveled into a straight line, and he clenched his fists at his sides. But he remained silent.
Once they were gone, Forrest smoothed back his brown hair and took a deep breath. He gave Gloria a shadow of his usual grin. “Good thing I had the sense to invite more than one canary to this party.”
Gloria’s mouth fell open. “You can’t mean—”
He laughed, and his disappointment seemed to vanish. How strange, Gloria thought, to seem so downtrodden one second and happy-go-lucky the next.
“You were just saying yesterday how eager you are to get back to your singing career!” Forrest said. “Do you have any idea how many producers and club owners there are out there? You couldn’t ask for a better showcase than this party!”
“But I’m not ready, I haven’t prepared—”
“Don’t worry!” Forrest put a calming hand on her shoulder. “Just sing whatever you want. This is one of the best bands you’ve ever been with—I guarantee it—and they’ll pick up what you throw them and run with it.”
The mention of a band made Gloria think of the last time she’d seen Jerome, how handsome he’d looked sitting at the Opera House’s piano in his gray suit and crimson tie. Gloria didn’t care who was in this band—if Jerome wasn’t in it, no way would it be the best she’d ever worked with. The nervousness she’d felt a moment earlier paled in comparison to the worry that clenched at her stomach. Hank had promised to find Jerome but hadn’t turned up any information yet.
Yet here Gloria was, living an easy life of luxury with a man she was supposed to be investigating. What if she couldn’t dig up any dirt on Forrest—would Hank send her right back to jail? Would he stop looking for Jerome?
Misreading the worry on her face, Forrest added, “Baby doll, everyone here knows who you are! And they’re on your side! How about you come out to the party with me and see?”
There had to be a way out of this … except Gloria realized she didn’t want a way out. She wanted to sing. That was about all she could be certain of in this strange new world.
And she couldn’t afford to make Forrest unhappy. His trust was the only bargaining chip she’d managed to gain during her stay at his villa.
“You go on,” she said. “I’ve gotta go fix my munitions if I’m going onstage.”
“That’s my girl.” Forrest put a gentle hand on her arm. “Really, thank you for stepping in, Glo.”
Forrest’s touch gave her chills. “Erm, of course,” she mumbled as he left.
Gloria sighed and thought of Jerome again, how long it had been since she’d felt so much as his hand on her arm. She would keep fighting for her freedom so the two of them could finally be together.
Quickly, she ran upstairs, into the bedroom Forrest had said she could use as long as she wanted. It reminded her of her room back in Chicago: truly lavish. A four-poster bed with its burgundy hangings stood next to a large window with a glorious view of the front lawn. A huge oak vanity took up most of one wall.
She crossed to the vanity and grabbed a tube of lipstick. That wasn’t the real reason she was here, though.
Her ring.
She wasn’t supposed to wear her engagement ring—Hank’s orders—but after watching Forrest and Ruby, she was missing Jerome more than ever. Surely she could hide the ring under her dress. Would it be so wrong to keep it close by, to remind herself of why she was doing all this? Besides, Forrest already knew about Jerome, and he didn’t care.
Gloria opened the drawer and pulled out a long white silk glove. She removed the chain from inside the glove, where she always kept it, and felt instantly calmer with the ring in her hands. To think how she would’ve mocked the ring’s tiny diamond and its simple gold band back in Chicago! Now it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen—its sparkle outshone the sequins on her dress and all the resplendent guests downstairs.
Gloria fastened the ring around her neck and hid it beneath her dress. The gold chain was definitely visible in the mirror, but it actually looked pretty nice with the rest of her outfit. Hopefully none of the guests would ask to see it—she wouldn’t want to explain why she was hiding an engagement ring. And even in these progressive circles, where having an exonerated criminal perform was a novelty, folks would be much less welcoming if they knew she was still involved with Jerome Johnson.
With one more sweep of rouge against her cheekbones, Gloria walked into the hallway. At the end of the hall were the double doors to Forrest’s bedroom suite—she felt drawn to them like a magnet. Forrest was busy with his guests; no way would he show up now. Maybe Forrest himself wouldn’t admit anything to Gloria about the source of his wealth. But who knew what Gloria might find in Forrest’s bedroom? A closet full of cash? Stacks of correspondence with nefarious mobsters? Her feet led her closer, past the gilded framed paintings, her heels padding softly on the plush carpet.
Finally she reached the heavy wooden doors.
She reached out her hand, her fingers touching the cool glass knob. One twist and she would be inside. Names flashed through her mind: Hank, Jerome. If anyone caught her she could just say she was searching for a lost earring. Was there any good reason to think it would be in Forrest’s room? No.
But sometimes a girl didn’t need a good reason.
Gloria turned the knob, but the door wouldn’t budge. Locked. Her heart sank. She tried again, but no luck. How silly to think he’d have left it unlocked.
Then Gloria pivoted and found herself staring into a pair of cold gray eyes.
She gasped. The man was about her father’s age, dressed well in a charcoal-gray suit and a scarlet bow tie. He had burly arms and a prominent scar that ran diagonally from the right side of his nose, across the bridge, and up to his left eyebrow. A thick gray mustache sat atop his upper lip, while his head was completely bald, and his eyes were only a bluish shade darker than white.
“What are you doing?” he growled.
Gloria hid her hands behind her back, not wanting the man to see them shaking. Why did he seem so familiar?
“I—um—”
“Speak up,” the man said, coming closer.
Then it hit her: She recognized him from a photograph in Hank’s file on Forrest. His name was Pembroke, and he worked for Forrest as some sort of servant.
“Pembroke!” she cried out.
He seemed surprised that she knew his name. “Yes?”
“I’m … late! To perform!” She rushed past him without waiting for a response, without looking back, even though she could feel Pembroke’s eyes on her. Watching.
The grand room was far more crowded than it had been before. The party had truly started.
The red-carpeted staircase curved down to the marble floor. Skylights lined the arched ceiling on either side of the room, and chandeliers dripping with crystals hung between them. At each corner stood thick ivory columns. At least two or three men and women stood around each column, kissing, laughing, smoking, or just leaning back and taking a rest from dancing. On any available surface sat delicate ivory vases filled with roses—red, white, and even some that had been dyed black. White-coated waiters moved through the crowd with silver platters of crab-stuffed mushrooms and cucumber-watercress sandwiches held high.
On the left was a stage with a heavy gold velvet curtain and matching golden wood floor. Just in front of that spread a wide dance floor, where bobbed women and men in top hats hopped and kicked at a dizzying pace. These dancers were scary good—probably due to the fact that many of them danced on Broadway for a living.
Groups of Forrest’s well-dressed friends gathered around various paintings on the walls, pointing with long cigarette holders as they carried on spirited discussions about the significance of each work. They seemed more intelligent and refined than anyone Gloria had met in New York or Chicago. Maybe it was because they were older, or because they had the artistic sensibilities that came with a life in the theater.
Before Gloria even stepped onto the marble floor, a group of party guests had gathered around her. “Gloria Carmody!” a tall, handsome man exclaimed. He had slicked-back hair and couldn’t be older than thirty. He wore a red scarf looped over his formal suit, a personal touch that would’ve looked ridiculous on anyone else. “The singing jailbird! I heard you were from Chicago.” He extended his hand. “Charles LeMaire. I so love meeting other Chi-town natives, especially when their stories are as fascinating as yours!”
“Thank you,” Gloria said, shaking his hand. “What do you do? ”
“I’m a costume designer.” He gestured toward the two girls standing beside him. “This is Mara Livingston and Lisa Burrows—they have to wear getups made entirely of feathers in the Follies if I tell them to.”
“He does and I did,” Lisa said. “Very itchy.” Her bob was an even deeper red than Gloria’s. She was dressed in a lime-green satin dress that seemed tame until she turned and Gloria saw that it was backless.
“At least you didn’t perform in the Heavenly Goddess number,” Mara replied. She had light brown hair that looked blond in the right light and wore a black silk lace evening dress with an elaborate beaded pinwheel pattern. “I’m still picking the glitter out of my hair, and we performed the number three weeks ago!”
“The Follies? As in the Ziegfeld Follies?” Gloria had to stop herself from squealing. The costume designer for the Follies knew who she was?
Charles nodded. “So I hear from Forrest that you’re going to perform for us. What are you planning to sing? I can’t wait to finally hear that bluesy voice of yours.”
“ ‘I Ain’t Got Nobody,’ ” Gloria replied. “Do you know it?”
“You certainly can’t go wrong with Marion Harris,” a woman’s deep voice said. She was in her early forties and wore a tasteful peach-colored dress with a wide skirt, and she hung on the arm of a distinguished-looking man with thinning dark hair. “I interviewed her once for the Sun and she was an absolute doll.” The woman extended her hand. “Marie Mattingly Meloney.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. And you write for the Sun?”
“Not anymore—it wasn’t much fun once Willie wasn’t editor anymore,” Marie said, squeezing the man’s arm. “Now I’m editor of the Delineator magazine.”
A female magazine editor! It made Gloria wish Clara were here so she could introduce her.
She couldn’t help it: Excitement tingled in her stomach. Not only did these people know who she was, but they were excited to hear her sing! It was what Gloria had always dreamed of.
Gloria started when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She whipped around to find Forrest standing beside a thin black man with a receding hairline and a kind smile. “There you are!” Forrest exclaimed. “I was planning to introduce you around, but it looks like you’ve already found the cream of the crop for yourself.”
“You flatter us, Forrest,” Charles said. “But please—don’t stop.”
Forrest chuckled. “No, really—I’m not even sure how the rest of these rascals got in here,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I’ll have to have a talk with my butler.” While the others laughed, Forrest tugged on Gloria’s arm to pull her closer. “Are you ready to wail up there, kid?”
Gloria hadn’t even noticed that the orchestra had stopped playing. But now that she did, the party seemed distinctly less lively and romantic without it. She gave Forrest a confident smile. “If there’s one thing I’m always ready to do, it’s sing.”
“Now, that’s an attitude I like to see,” the thin man beside Forrest said. He shook Gloria’s hand. “I’m Bernard, the band leader. My boys and I will take good care of you up there, I promise.”
Once Gloria and Bernard had discussed the song—a tune he and his band knew well—Forrest nodded to them both. “Okay, Bernie, you come onstage with me. Gloria, you wait until I introduce you.”
“Good luck!” her new acquaintances whispered as Forrest and Bernard climbed the steps on the left side of the stage.
Bernard picked up his conductor’s baton and stood in front of the orchestra. The men set their drinks on the stage and picked up their instruments. Forrest approached the microphone and the crowd’s roar hushed to a dull murmur.
“I hope you’re all having a fantastic evening!” Forrest called. “And let’s have another round of applause for the Blue Rhythm Orchestra!” The room filled with hoots and whistles. “Now, I know many of you may have heard that the beautiful and talented Ruby Hayworth would be singing tonight. But I have, with no offense to Ruby, an even more enticing treat for you all.
“Some of you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting one of my most honored guests. For those of you who live under a rock and don’t know her story, she’s a woman who was wrongly imprisoned after shooting a gangster to save the life of the man she loved. She also happens to be a very talented singer. She’d like to celebrate her recent release from the big house by gracing us with a song! So without further ado, may I introduce the Diva of the Downtrodden, the Songbird of the Wrongfully Accused—performing under her own name at long last—Gloria Carmody!”
The crowd exploded into applause. Gloria took one last deep breath and made her way through the crowd to the stage stairs. Then she took her place at center stage. Her heart was hammering in her chest—this was by far the largest group she’d ever sung in front of. But Ruby was right. The frightening thrill of it was what made singing so exhilarating.
The music began to swell, and even though a million thoughts were running through her mind—thoughts about Jerome, Forrest and Ruby, Hank—there was nothing she could do now except what she’d been born to do.
Sing.