JEROME
Jerome didn’t know a thing about croquet.
And yet he was pretty sure he could still play it better than Forrest and his guests.
The group was gathered on the wide lawn in front of Forrest’s extravagant villa. Wickets were set up around the yard, and cushioned lawn chairs were laid out in a row. Forrest stood in front of the red ball with his mallet.
“Let’s see if Forrest can aim for the right wicket this time,” a blonde sitting on one of the chairs called from under her large hat. Jerome was pretty sure her name was Glitter or Sparkle or some other such nonsense.
“I doubt it,” a darker blonde said from her seat next to the other one. “His aim has never been very good. Have you seen how many times he’s tried to hit Marty’s balls out of the way? But you’re here to stay, aren’t you, Marty?”
Overweight, sunburned Marty was dressed for the game in white shorts and a white-and-red plaid sweater. He ignored the two girls completely and leaned on his mallet, the bulge of his stomach hanging out over his shorts. Marty’s wife, Ruby Hayworth, wore a simple ivory day dress. The actress was a dead ringer for Clara Bow, only with dark brown hair rather than red.
Ruby rolled her eyes. “Glitz, Glamour, lay off and let Forrest concentrate.”
She gave Forrest a warm smile and the playboy looked practically thunderstruck. She’d already bagged herself a rich husband—and now it looked like she had Forrest wrapped around her finger as well. Jerome wondered how Ruby managed to stay the center of attention with a firecracker like Gloria around. Sure, Ruby had charisma, but that was a given. You couldn’t get far in show business without it.
Gloria had more charisma in her little toe than ten Ruby Hayworths. She was the last match in a matchbook—the one that managed to spark while the others lay dull and useless on the ground.
Gloria—his Gloria.
Today she was wearing a sleeveless lavender blouse and a pale gray skirt with a matching gray cloche. When Forrest managed to hit his ball through the correct wicket for the first time since they’d started playing, Gloria burst into delighted, musical laughter. “I knew you had it in you,” she said to him.
“I’m actually a decent player on my good days,” Forrest replied. “But how can I keep my mind on the game with so many lovely distractions so close by?” He winked at Gloria, and from fifteen feet away Jerome could see her blush. What was that—was Forrest flirting with Gloria?
Jerome brushed the idea out of his mind. Last night Gloria had told him how supportive Forrest was of their relationship—more than any white man she’d ever met. Forrest was a friend.
Well, sort of.
“Waiter?” Glitz called, and almost startled him into dropping the tray of gin and tonics in his hand. “I think I could use another.”
“But your glass is still full!” Glamour remarked.
“Mmm, but my other hand is empty and not doing anything special. Why waste it when it could be doing something useful like holding my next drink?”
Waiter. The word pained him. Glitz took a drink from Jerome’s tray without saying thank you or even acknowledging his existence. Jerome walked back to his post beside the row of lawn chairs. He stood with his tray held high and a towel over his arm: just another piece of furniture.
He used to be a musician. What had happened to him?
Jerome looked back to the croquet game. Apparently Forrest had convinced Gloria that he was a good enough player to teach her how to shoot. She bent over the ball with her mallet, laughing, while Forrest laid his hands on her arm and shoulder.
Too close for comfort.
Then Forrest called to Jerome over his shoulder. “Waiter! I think this game is getting a little too sober for anyone’s liking.”
Jerome took a deep breath and marched over to the two teams on the lawn. Forrest took drinks for himself and Gloria. He leaned in close and clinked his glass against Gloria’s. “To mopping the floor with these two,” he said, his lips close to Gloria’s ear. Gloria’s face was bright red now.
Jerome trusted Gloria, and Gloria had said that Forrest only saw her as a pal. So what the hell was Forrest playing at, pawing at Gloria like this? Jerome clenched his fists and told himself to calm down. Hank had worked hard to get him here—he couldn’t risk blowing his cover. Thankfully, even if Forrest approved of him theoretically, the man had no idea what Jerome looked like—so Jerome was able to be at his estate without raising any suspicion.
Yet.
Before last night, Jerome hadn’t spoken to Gloria in weeks—even though he’d been so worried about her. He’d seen in the papers that she’d been released from prison and hated that he couldn’t go straight to her. But Hank had said he couldn’t. So Jerome just had to wait and hope that Gloria was thinking of him even a fraction as much as he was thinking of and longing for her.
Then last night had been such a blur of pure joy and relief. The waves of her autumn-fire hair, those brilliant, pale eyes that held more intelligence and strength than Jerome had ever thought a silver-spoon dame like her could possess. God, he’d missed her.
The sun was already rising outside Gloria’s window by the time they got to talking. Jerome lay on Gloria’s enormous bed with her head on his chest, her soft, beautiful hair tickling his nose. He’d been ready to fall asleep in the heaven he’d found in Gloria’s arms, but she’d pulled away and looked up at him with a mix of elation and concern on her face.
“I’m so happy to see you, Jerome. But what are you doing here?” she asked. “I’m working to get us both out of trouble. Hank said—”
Jerome had put two of his fingers to her lips. “Hank’s the one who sent me here.”
He told Gloria how her father had left him in Middle of Nowhere, New Jersey. She gripped the silk comforter hard as Jerome told the story. At one point she interrupted him. “Can you please stop calling that man my father?” A tear ran down her cheek, but her expression remained fierce. “He lost his right to being called that a long time ago.”
Jerome looked at his fiancée for a moment, lost in sadness and admiration for her. Jerome’s own father had never understood him, had done everything he could to tear Jerome away from music. He and Gloria had this in common. “Well, anyway, I woke up on a tiny cot in a ramshackle house. A real sweet old couple, the Walkers, had found me lying on the side of the road not long after I passed out.”
“Thank God,” Gloria said.
“They insisted I stay with them for a few days to get my strength back up, then they directed me to the nearest pay phone in Hoboken. From there I called Hank, and he promised to help me out with Lowell if I helped you with Forrest.” Jerome looked away, unsure how Gloria would react to this next part. “It took Hank a little bit of time, but soon he was able to get an investigation into your father’s business dealings going. Now … well, Lowell doesn’t have any time to worry about who you’re planning to marry.”
Gloria smiled in relief. “Good. One less problem for us.”
“So Hank set me up at a hotel in New York on the bureau’s dime and worked to plant me here as a servant. Hank appreciates that it’s probably been hard for you to get a chance to go through Forrest’s things, being his guest—a servant would have a lot more access. He said I couldn’t contact you. Otherwise, sweetheart, you know I would have.”
She nodded. “I know. I’m just happy you’re safe. And Hank’s right—I could use your help.” Gloria told him about Forrest’s inheritance from his late father. “So you see, he’s not a criminal at all. Hank probably just got bored with gin busts and decided to target Forrest. But Hank will never believe me without proof. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to search Forrest’s room so I can find his father’s will and we can leave the past where it belongs: in the past. And move on with our lives.”
Jerome peered at Gloria, skeptical. “What makes you think Forrest is telling the truth?”
“I know this mansion and the company he keeps might make you think differently, but Forrest really is a decent man,” Gloria said. “You’ll see.”
Jerome couldn’t bring himself to dash the hope in Gloria’s eyes. “All right. The first chance I get, I’ll search his room and find that will. Then we’ll get out of here and it’ll be just you and me.”
When Gloria fell asleep, he sneaked back to the servants’ quarters happier than he’d been in weeks.
But now the joy drained from him as he watched Forrest manhandle Gloria. Forrest’s hand had been on Gloria’s waist for what felt like hours. It was too much for Jerome to take, no matter how decent Gloria insisted Forrest was.
Jerome abruptly twisted the hand holding the silver tray so that all five remaining gin and tonics splashed all over Forrest’s navy-blue pin-striped jacket. Gloria squealed in surprise and Forrest jumped away from her.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” Jerome said half a second too late.
There was a tense, sickly pause in the air as Forrest pulled a white handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, wiping his hands with it. Then he did the impossible: He laughed.
“Ah, that was refreshing,” he remarked. “I think a gin shower was exactly what I needed to up my game.” He glanced at Jerome without really looking at him. “Thank you, good sir.” He took off his jacket, folded it over, and handed it to Jerome. “I’m afraid I’ll need a new one of these, though.”
Damn. Maybe Gloria was right after all. “You’re not angry?” Jerome asked.
Forrest waved him off. “If even half the drinks that get poured around here survive, I count myself a lucky man. There’s a similar jacket on the far right side of my closet.” He pulled a heavy silver key ring out of his pocket, pulled a brass key free from the rest, and handed the key to Jerome. “I keep my bedroom locked, old boy.”
Jerome looked behind Forrest at Gloria, who eyed the keys in Jerome’s hand and looked as though she was trying to suppress a delighted laugh. Gloria probably thought Jerome had orchestrated this whole thing so he’d be able to get into Forrest’s room.
“Of course,” Jerome said to Forrest, “I’ll be right back with that for you, sir.”
Five minutes later, Jerome stood in the middle of what was easily the finest bedroom he’d ever seen.
The walls were paneled in soft mahogany, and a few tastefully abstract paintings hung in gilded frames. A four-poster bed sat in the middle of the room, and a few framed photos on the dresser and the desk by the window displayed Forrest next to gorgeous Follies dancers or famous actors.
Jerome crossed to the closet. It was full of fine silk shirts of every color and enough suits to clothe an army of gentlemen. Jerome removed the navy-blue coat Forrest had mentioned and hung it on the back of the desk chair. Then he moved to the desk and began shuffling through Forrest’s mail. He didn’t really know where Forrest would keep a copy of his father’s will—he was a musician, not a detective. But he did have an advantage in this investigation that Gloria didn’t: invisibility.
When Hank had first mentioned the possibility of Jerome’s working as a servant in Forrest’s home, Jerome had never thought it would work.
“We’ve paid off Forrest’s head housekeeper. She hires all his help for him,” Hank had explained. “You’ll show up with a few other new servants, and it’ll be your job to do your best to blend in. With any luck, Forrest won’t even notice you’re there.”
“But won’t he recognize me? My face has been plastered in at least half as many magazines as Gloria’s since everything that went down at the Opera House,” Jerome pointed out.
Hank had given him a pitying smile. “Jerome, you’re black. Put you in serving clothes and you’ll be practically invisible to wealthy white folks like Forrest and his crowd. Forrest is the sort of man who, if he did read any of those Manhattanite articles, never would’ve looked past the pretty girl on your arm in the photos. A guy like you? You’ve only ever been an invisible man to him.”
Jerome had spent his whole life avoiding this kind of serving-the-white-man work. But Hank had made it clear that if Jerome wanted to escape Lowell and see his beloved fiancée anytime soon, he was going to have to get over his pride and do what needed to be done.
Unable to find anything out of the ordinary on the mahogany desk, Jerome began opening the drawers on each side. In the middle drawer on the left, he found a thick beige envelope. He withdrew two steamship tickets to Paris. The boat was leaving in a week. He also found a folded slip of notebook paper in the envelope. It was a sort of list written in impeccably neat handwriting:
Height: 5′2″
Weight: 105 lb.?
To Bring Along:
7 day dresses
7 evening dresses
4 skirts
4 blouses
Shoes? Ask Marlene at Bloomingdale’s
Dial Madame Barbas/House of Patou as soon as we arrive
The handwriting looked masculine, but what was all this about skirts and blouses … unless … Forrest was planning to whisk a girl away to Paris!
Jerome felt his throat close up. From the way Forrest had been acting outside, it wasn’t too hard to guess who that girl might be.
Gloria had said she’d talked to Forrest about Jerome—it wasn’t like this man had no idea Gloria was no longer available. What, did Forrest think that because Gloria was engaged to a black man, it didn’t count as a real engagement? How dare Forrest try to steal his girl! It would serve the man right if Jerome ripped up these tickets right now.
But that was a big, stupid risk that Jerome knew he couldn’t take. Besides, he knew if Forrest offered Gloria a trip to Paris, she’d refuse him. He returned the tickets and list to the envelope and put them back where he’d found them.
Jerome moved to the dresser. He went through it drawer by drawer and found far less clothing in the last one than there should’ve been. He reached through the stacks of polo shirts to the bottom of the drawer and grinned when the wood lifted easily under his hands. He cleared out the drawer and lifted the false bottom.
His eyes were drawn first to a small black velvet box in the corner. Inside? A ring that made Gloria’s look like a child’s plaything. It had a white-gold band, and several tiny diamonds were grouped into the shape of a flower at the center. Maybe the ring was just a family heirloom—maybe it had nothing to do with Gloria—but the sight of it still made Jerome queasy.
Jerome glanced at the door and listened hard for footsteps or voices, but the coast was still clear. He turned his attention to a large leather-covered book that took up most of the space in the bottom of the drawer. Jerome flipped through the photo album and recognized a handsome young boy with dark, glinting eyes as a younger version of Forrest. In one picture, the boy looked about five or six. He stood at the edge of a pond, fishing rod in hand. A mustached man in a casual checkered shirt and trousers stood behind Forrest with a hand on his shoulder. Forrest was laughing, but the man’s expression was grave.
Jerome had to look at the picture for a few moments before he realized why the man seemed familiar. He hadn’t been bald back then—he’d had dark, silky hair just like Forrest’s, and it swept over his forehead in the exact same way. Though the man’s pale eyes were more sinister, they had the same appealing glimmer as Forrest’s—and like Forrest, the man was remarkably handsome.
This was before the man had gotten the scar that stretched across his face.
Without the scar, the resemblance between Forrest’s man Pembroke and Forrest was unmistakable. The clefts in their chins, their long, straight noses, their lips that would’ve looked too thin on anyone else.
Pembroke wasn’t Forrest’s manservant, or bodyguard, or goon. Pembroke was Forrest’s father.
But Gloria had told Jerome that Forrest said his father was dead. Why had he lied? And why was his father pretending to be a butler?
Jerome heard the grandfather clock in the foyer begin to chime. He’d been up here for half an hour already! Far too long to merely fetch a jacket. He reassembled the drawer as fast as he could and replaced the clothes.
He turned, ready to bolt out the door. And he met a pair of pale, bloodshot eyes. The same ones in the photograph.
Jerome gulped and dropped the jacket in his hands on the floor. He stumbled backward, bumping up against the cold metal handles of the dresser drawers. A framed photo of Forrest and some dancer fell on the floor, the glass shattering. Jerome looked quickly out the window, searching for some other escape. Then he stared into those eyes and they chilled him to the bone. What could he do now?
Pembroke stood in the doorway and chuckled, low and deep, at Jerome’s distress.
His arms were crossed, but the doorframe still seemed too small to contain his bulk. Pembroke’s lips curved into a garish, crooked smile beneath his bushy gray mustache. Like his son, he was dressed in a blue pin-striped suit. But his pale blue eyes held none of Forrest’s good humor. They were flat and soulless—a killer’s eyes.
Pembroke clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “A floozy singer and a colored boy. They must not think much of my son over at the bureau if this is the cavalry they send after him.”
Pembroke continued to grin, making his jagged scar even more unsettling. He moved a few steps closer and Jerome backed away from the dresser and farther into the room, until he was against the wood-paneled wall. Then Pembroke pulled a hefty black pistol from his side holster. Jerome didn’t know much about guns, but he knew a gun that size at this range would take his head clean off.
Pembroke pointed the gun at Jerome’s temple. “So. Did you find what you were looking for, Detective?”
GLORIA
Gloria was beginning to understand why none of Forrest’s shows had done well.
“Hey, Gretchen!” Earl slurred, slumped on his piano bench. “You ready to run through ‘A Penny for Your Thoughts’?”
“It’s Gloria,” she replied, “and I’m not sure that’s—”
“Come on, Glo!” Glitz called from her cushioned golden chair at the other end of the salon. She and the others sat by the floor-to-ceiling arched windows in the informal audience area. “Keep going! It’s all been jake so far. Ain’t that right, Glam?”
Beside Glitz, Glamour clapped. “Encore, encore! These songs are just the rage, Forrest. Much better than the ones in your other shows.”
What are the songs from his other shows like? Gloria wondered. Maybe the actors just scratch their fingernails across a blackboard for ninety minutes.
Gloria stood next to a grand piano in a salon on the first floor of Forrest’s villa, looking over the pianist’s shoulder at sheet music from Moonshine Melody. The pianist was a middle-aged man named Earl with messy dark hair and a thin mustache, still dressed in the tuxedo he’d worn to Forrest’s party the evening before. He was more than a little tipsy, his fingers drunkenly caressing the black-and-white keys.
After the bright, sugar-sweet intro, she began to sing:
“Oh, how I wish you would hold me tight
And tell me all that keeps you up at night,
All your greatest dreams and fears
Words that would bring you to tears.
Only then will I truly know your love
And believe you were sent from above
To give me strength and happy thoughts
So here’s a penny, a penny for your thoughts.”
There were so, so many things wrong with the song—even discounting obvious mistakes like rhyming thoughts with thoughts. The timing was off and the song was filled with sappy clichés. Who on earth was the lyricist Forrest had hired?
It wasn’t like Forrest was paying attention anyway. When he had proposed that Earl run through a few songs from Forrest’s new show with Gloria, she’d been so excited. Forrest was really considering her for a lead role—a role he’d previously wanted a star like Ruby Hayworth to fill!
But instead of watching Gloria perform, Forrest spent the whole time staring at Ruby. Finally the glamorous actress met his eyes and smiled at him. Then she turned to her husband. “Marty, could you get me another rum and soda?”
“Tell the waiter,” Marty replied tersely.
“Oh, but no one can make rum and sodas the way you do.”
Marty harrumphed and left with both their glasses. As soon as he was gone, Ruby scooted as close to Forrest as her seat would allow and whispered something in his ear. They both laughed softly and didn’t break eye contact for a second.
“This salon is gorgeous,” Ruby said to him, touching his wrist lightly and looking around at the gold sconces on the wall and crystal chandeliers hanging overhead.
Forrest covered her hand with his. “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”
“You really are doing well for yourself these days. It’s nice of you to let us enjoy your success with you—thank you for that.”
“No, thank you. I didn’t enjoy it at all—not until you showed up.” Ruby positively glowed at this.
The two whispered through Gloria’s song, touching each other with a casual ease that astounded Gloria. You’d think they’d been a couple for years.
Ruby and Forrest backed off when Marty returned, but they still caught each other’s eyes every chance they got. Meanwhile, Marty just gripped the arms of his chair hard and drank down shots of Scotch faster than the waiter could bring them.
Gloria looked away from them and tried to focus on her performance. But she just couldn’t get into it—the song was terrible.
Jerome had once given Gloria a talk about committing to the material no matter what it was. “Chances are, you’re not gonna love everything they hand you to sing. But if it’s what they want to hear, you’ve just gotta deal with it and thank God, your manager, and Fate itself for giving you the chance to do what you love for a living.”
But Jerome wasn’t here to give her a pep talk. He hadn’t shown up at her room after the party last night, and Gloria had thought maybe he was just being careful after what had happened during the croquet game yesterday afternoon. But when she hadn’t seen him this morning, she’d questioned Forrest about it. He’d said that after the bit with the jacket, his man Pembroke had found Jerome going through Forrest’s things in his bedroom. So Pembroke had fired him on the spot. “You just can’t find good help nowadays,” Forrest had said with a shrug and a smile.
Gloria planned to call Hank as soon as she got a moment alone. She hoped that somehow Jerome had hooked back up with the FBI and they were looking out for him. Maybe Jerome had even found the will before Pembroke had caught him. Gloria prayed that he had. She’d had enough of this place. She wanted to go back to the city, back to Jerome. This gilded mansion was starting to feel as imprisoning as actual prison had.
Gloria finished singing, and after a moment, Ruby and Forrest remembered to tear their eyes away from each other and clap with the others.
Forrest stood from his chair and patted Gloria’s shoulder. Now that he had Ruby’s undivided attention, Gloria was his buddy once again. “Fantastic work, my friend! And now you’ve put me in the mood for a musical. What do you say we head into the city and see my show The Cat’s Meow?”
Glitz pursed her lips. “No offense, Hammy, but I don’t think you could pay me to see that show again. I should get a medal for sitting through it on opening night.”
“Mmm,” Glamour agreed. “The Cat’s Screech would’ve been a better title.”
“What if I paid you in food and booze?” Forrest asked. “We’ll stop by Twenty-One beforehand. Drink enough of their martinis and it’ll be the greatest show you ever saw, I guarantee it.”
“Now you’re talkin’!” Glitz said, fanning herself.
“How about you, Glo?” Forrest asked as the others rose from their chairs. “I’m afraid the show’s as awful as they say. The playwright used to be brilliant, and when we met in a gin joint, I thought it was fate. Too late I realized that these days, that man is always in some gin joint or other. He’s been hitting the bottle too hard for years, and so the script is basically nonsense. But I’ll make sure we get a chance to go backstage after the show. You can get more of a sense of the Broadway world, what it’s like behind the scenes. Maybe it’ll help you decide if it’s the kind of place you might want to work.”
“I’d have a lot to learn before I could ever really think about a Broadway career,” Gloria said. But even so, her mind swam with images of packed theaters, beautiful love stories made even lovelier by song, and a dozen red roses waiting in her dressing room by a mirror ringed in lights.
“You’ve got talent and more charisma than any leading lady I’ve seen on Broadway,” Forrest said. He looked at Ruby, who stood gossiping with Glitz and Glamour while Marty moved toward the door. “Don’t you think, Ruby?”
Instantly Ruby was at Forrest’s side. “Absolutely,” she said. But she was looking at Forrest, not Gloria.
“Ruby, are you coming?” Marty called from the doorway impatiently.
“You go ahead, Marty,” Ruby replied dismissively without even looking at him. Before, Ruby had at least pretended to care about her husband, but now she only had eyes for Forrest. Was she really getting up the courage to leave Marty?
Forrest smiled dreamily at Ruby for what felt like a full minute before he looked back at Gloria. “Sorry, what were we talking about?”
“You were saying how Gloria could be on Broadway, and I was agreeing,” Ruby answered, her eyes glittering with delight.
“Right, right. Anyway, the other stuff can be learned easily enough,” Forrest said to Gloria. “You’ll have plenty of opportunities in your life to sing your heart out on the Great White Way—there’s no doubt in my mind.”
Gloria paused to think. This adventure into the city would mean she wouldn’t get a chance until tomorrow to call Hank. But she couldn’t hide her excitement. Jerome would want her to seize this opportunity, wouldn’t he? She could meet producers and other people in the industry. That way, once she was free of the charges against her for good, she’d have a way to support them both.
Gloria had been eager to see a show since she’d arrived in New York. She couldn’t think of a better introduction to the wonders of Broadway than doing so as the producer’s personal guest.
“Thank you, Forrest, I’d love to!” she replied.
“Fantastic!” Forrest said. “Then put on your glad rags, girls, and do it fast! I expect to see you outside in half an hour.”
“Half an hour!” Glamour exclaimed. “That’s barely enough time to get my eyelashes on!”
At five-thirty, the group gathered around Forrest’s black Lincoln and Marty’s surprisingly rusty old red Model T.
Gloria had never seen a smart set dressed more smartly than Forrest and his friends. He and Marty both wore gray suits, but the similar outfits only exaggerated the differences between them. Marty looked short and pudgy in his ill-fitting suit and bright red shirt—what had Ruby ever seen in him? Forrest’s suit was like an expensive second skin that accentuated his trim, muscled build. He wore a pale yellow shirt with a white collar that looked delicious against his tanned skin and made his dark eyes even more arresting. His hair looked carelessly tousled; the effect was sexy enough to make Gloria wonder why so many boys bothered with slicking their hair back.
Glamour was a ray of sunlight in a gown of gold brocade. Glitz’s outfit coordinated well with her friend’s—she wore an ivory dress with a gold lamé hip band.
Ruby looked possibly the most beautiful Gloria had ever seen her. She wore a full-length burnt-orange dress with Grecian-style beading on the shoulders, and diamond earrings dangled from her ears. Her dark, wavy hair was parted far on the side so that a wave fell over one sparkling dark brown eye. Her dress was easily the longest of the four girls’. But Ruby was a girl who didn’t need to dress sexy to be sexy—her sheer essence gave her all the sex appeal she would ever need.
Gloria knew she didn’t look too bad herself. She’d chosen a Jeanne Paquin dress made almost entirely of sea-green lace, with two satin panels on the sides. The dress brought out her eyes, especially with her matching jade earrings.
“So I guess we should figure out who’s driving who?” Ruby asked. There was something a little strained and nervous about her typically musical voice.
“What?” Forrest asked. He’d been staring at her in stupefied silence since she’d walked out the front door.
Ruby smiled. “I was just about to say that Gloria could come with me in Marty’s jalopy and you all can have Pembroke drive you. You don’t mind, do you, Marty? Gloria wanted me to give her some advice on auditioning and I just don’t want to bore you.”
Gloria hadn’t even noticed Forrest’s manservant near the marble steps to Forrest’s front door. Wearing a black suit, he stood with his hands clasped behind his back like a silent but horrifying ghost. Just looking at the older man gave her the shivers. She’d be grateful not to be stuck in a car with him.
Ten minutes later, Pembroke didn’t seem so bad. Ruby was a gorgeous girl of many talents—but driving was certainly not one of them.
“Um, how long has Marty had this car?” Gloria asked lightly. She wasn’t sure if talking would help Ruby’s swerving or make things worse.
“About a hundred years,” Ruby replied. “He’s rich as they come, but he won’t replace this car until it stops dead in the street. If I knew more about cars I’d probably try to speed up that process somehow.”
Gloria laughed. “So, have you seen The Cat’s Meow?”
Ruby took her eyes off the road for a horrifying moment. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”
“About auditioning, you mean?”
Ruby snorted. “I know you’ve been snooping around here.”
Gloria felt the blood drain from her face. She stared out the windows as rain began to fall. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Save it, honey.” Ruby honked the horn and hollered, “Get outta my way, nutty!” then dashed into another lane.
This is it, Gloria thought. I’m going to die.
“Forrest is as good a man as God has ever created,” Ruby went on. “If there’s anything dirty in that house, it’s not him.”
“Are you implying that somebody else’s dirty laundry might be hanging somewhere in Forrest’s house?” Gloria asked. Had the inheritance story been a lie after all? But why would Forrest lie if he really had done nothing wrong?
“It’s complicated,” Ruby said after a few moments. “But how about we make a deal: It’ll take me a few days, but I’ll get you the information you need. And I’ll make sure you snag the lead role in Moonshine Melody. In return, you’re going to make sure no coppers come after us when Forrest and I disappear on Saturday night.”
“I’m listening,” Gloria said in a measured voice. It sounded too good to be true. Freedom for her and Jerome, and the lead in a Broadway show? Sure, the show clearly wasn’t great, but it was still a Broadway show. Thousands of girls would kill for that kind of shot, and those were girls with tons of experience.
But if Gloria had learned anything in the past year, it was this: If something seemed too good to be true, it probably was.
“Forrest and I were in love a few years ago,” Ruby explained. “I was in the choir at my church back then, and Forrest always used to walk me home. He was so handsome, and smart, and … well, he was just the same as he is now. Only he was poor, and my father was set on my marrying Marty. Forrest and I talked about eloping, but in the end I was too afraid.”
Interesting. That made sense—their chemistry was too deep to have only developed over just these past few weeks. No wonder Forrest had been so fixated on Ruby! She was the one who got away. Now he finally had the money to get the girl, but it was too late. Or was it?
“Why are you telling me this?” Gloria asked.
“Because I know your story,” Ruby replied. “I’ve read all about you. You could’ve married that Sebastian Grey, had a horrible life—like mine. But you followed your heart. And now it’s time I did the same thing. Only I’m gonna need your help.”
Gloria watched the road blur by through the window, the trees combining in a mass of deep green through the rain. She’d wondered before what might’ve happened if she had stayed in Chicago and gone through with her marriage to Bastian. Living with Jerome in their closet of an apartment in Harlem, she’d even wondered if she’d made the wrong choice by running away from her easy, hassle-free life.
But looking at Ruby, Gloria could see that the hassles were what made life worth living—so long as love was waiting on the other side. Ruby was married to a wealthy man, had a dream of a career, was young and beautiful. All she could see, though, was the absence of the one man who had ever made her truly happy.
This was something Gloria understood herself. It was the same way she would have felt if she hadn’t picked Jerome. She had to help Ruby.
And also … the prospect of taking over Ruby’s part didn’t hurt.
“All right, Ruby, I’d say we’ve got a deal. You get me proof of where Forrest’s money comes from—something tangible I can show to the FBI—and I’ll help you get away.”
Gloria gasped when Ruby swerved out of their lane, nearly crashing into a honking blue Cadillac. She parked on the shoulder of the road, twenty feet away from the tollbooths into New York City.
Ruby turned and gave Gloria an exhilarated smile. She extended her hand. “A deal isn’t a deal without a proper handshake.”
Gloria shook her hand. “I really hope you’re right about Forrest and that things work out for you two.”
“Thank you. I hope the best for you and Jerome, too.”
Jerome. Gloria’s stomach swirled at the sound of his name. Now that she had a clear path to some professional success, she had to turn her focus to reuniting with the love of her life—before anything else terrible happened to him.
CLARA
It was Clara’s first visit to a bridal salon and she was here with Lorraine Dyer. By choice. Life certainly was full of strange surprises.
Lorraine nudged her side as they passed by the first rack by the door. “You see the third one from the left? With the halter top and the lace?”
Priscilla’s Bridal Salon had looked elegant enough through its expansive front windows, but it was posilutely gorgeous inside. Embossed lavender wallpaper covered the walls, and glass tables topped with fresh flowers were sprinkled throughout the shop. Several floor-to-ceiling windows let in tons of natural light and illuminated the racks of dazzling white dresses.
“Umm … I think so.” Clara looked around and saw dresses in every shade of white, from the blinding snow to nearly pale yellow. The tastefully placed silver racks were a riot of stunning lace detailing and luxurious silk. Clara recognized the Coco Chanel gowns by their short hemlines and long tulle trains.
“You think my dad would get angry if I bought it now?” Lorraine bit one of her fingernails. “I mean, of course I’m going to get married eventually, right?”
Clara couldn’t help but share a little of Lorraine’s enthusiasm. She pointed to a dress on her right with beautiful little cap sleeves and some of the most intricate beadwork she’d ever seen. “That one’s my favorite.”
Only a few months earlier, she’d fantasized about wearing a dress just like that opposite Marcus. She’d never imagined a big, swanky event—certainly not the Plaza. It had always just been the idea of looking deeply into Marcus’s too-blue eyes throughout the ceremony and knowing she’d get to keep doing it for the rest of her life.
But now his gaze belonged to someone else—the very someone Lorraine and Clara had been following from Barnard’s campus since she’d gotten out of her one and only class. (Which was French, by the way. What kind of French girl needed to take French?)
“Where is she?” Lorraine asked, craning her neck.
“I don’t know,” Clara said. “Maybe you shouldn’t have tried on so many shoes across the street.”
“You said we had to bide our time! I was simply biding my time trying on shoes!”
Clara rolled her eyes. “Twenty pairs?”
A woman in a tailored gray suit appeared next to them, startling them both. Her gray hair was pulled into a severe knot at the nape of her neck, and her drawn-on eyebrows were downright terrifying. She stood with crossed arms and scowled at Lorraine and Clara. “Can I help you?”
Clara smiled at Lorraine and looked back at the woman: Marguerite, her name tag said. “My best friend, Julia, here is about to get married!” Clara exclaimed. “It’s so exciting.”
“And Becky here is going to be my maid of honor, of course,” Lorraine said, looping her arm through Clara’s. “We’d love to try on a few dresses.”
Marguerite’s expression didn’t change. “You don’t have an appointment.”
“I know,” Lorraine said. “But I saw these beautiful dresses through the window and I just couldn’t resist! My fiancé, Renaldo, would just die if he saw me in one of these lovely creations. I mean, of course, he wouldn’t really die—he’s got to stick around for the honeymoon! We’re going to Paris, you know, and—”
Marguerite stared at Lorraine’s hand. “Where’s your engagement ring?”
Lorraine raised her eyebrows and seemed lost for words, but only for about half a second. “Where’s yours, you old maid!” She began to pace in front of the desk. “Do you have any idea who my father is? Clar—uh, I mean, Becky, can you believe the way she’s treating us? Why, if my father knew you were being so rude, he’d buy this place right out from under you and you’d never work in this town again! He’d turn this shop into storage for his golf clubs, he’d—”
Clara left Lorraine to her tirade and wandered farther into the store, past more racks of dresses, and peered through a doorway into a circular room with multiple full-length mirrors. Sweet little lavender couches to match the walls were gathered around a platform where Anastasia now stood.
Marcus’s fiancée was even more beautiful in person than in her engagement photo. Her auburn bob had finger waves and framed her delicate cheekbones beautifully. Her eyes were a warm chestnut brown, the sort that inspired trust—a very handy trait for a con woman.
She was wearing a blindingly white monster of a dress. Ugh, was Marcus really going to let his bride wear something so unfashionable? Clara was pretty sure there was even a hoopskirt hiding under all that taffeta. Two women in suits cut like Marguerite’s, though theirs were respectively burgundy and dark brown, knelt on either side of Anastasia with pincushions in hand.
“Irene, could you raise the hem about half an inch on your side?” the woman in brown asked the other.
“Could I trouble one of you for a glass of water?” Anastasia asked in a French accent as light and feathery as the rest of her.
The woman in the brown suit rose and walked through the doorway past Clara. Clara glanced at her name tag as she walked by: Jacqueline. Lorraine showed up beside Clara a few moments after Jacqueline left, and peered through the doorway. “Now we’ve got her right where we want her. How do we get her alone, though?”
“Let me worry about that,” Clara replied. “How’d it go with the dragon lady?”
“She’s picking out dresses for me. By the way, if anyone asks, my last name is Rockefeller.”
Clara rolled her eyes—of course that was the name Lorraine had used. “You ready?” she asked.
Lorraine nodded. “Let’s get this lousy quiff.”
Clara and Lorraine walked through the doorway. “Excuse me, Irene?” Clara said. “A lady named Jacqueline said she needed you for something.”
Irene blinked a few times. “I’ll be right back, dear,” she said to Anastasia.
As soon as they were alone, Lorraine and Clara approached Anastasia. The platform made the girl even taller than Lorraine. Not ideal for intimidation purposes, but what could they do? They had to rile Anastasia up before either of the bridal shop employees came back, which could happen at any moment.
So Clara cut right to the chase. “We know who you are.”
“Yeah, cut the accent, Deirdre!” Lorraine chimed in.
In the split second before Marcus’s fiancée remembered she was supposed to be an innocent ingenue, her eyes hardened and her mouth leveled into a thin line. Anastasia might have looked like a porcelain doll, but there was clearly a layer of steel underneath the delicate surface. Then, like magic, the anger was gone. Anastasia looked from Lorraine to Clara in wide-eyed confusion without batting an eyelash. “I zink you must ’ave me meestaken for someone else. And you are not supposed to be ’ere.” She squinted at them as if she had forgotten her glasses and was trying to make out their facial features.
“You’re not supposed to be here!” Lorraine poked a sharp finger into Anastasia’s chest. “If he knew the truth about you, Marcus would never look twice at you, much less marry you!”
Anastasia stepped off the platform to get away from Lorraine. She clasped the material of her long veil in her hands as if it would somehow defend her. “I don’t know ’oo you are, but if you do not get out of ’ere I will call ze police! Irene, Jacqueline!”
Clara swallowed hard. “Maybe we should all just—”
But then Lorraine lunged at Anastasia and pried the long veil from her hands, yanking it straight off her head. Several bobby pins clattered to the floor. “Not so cocky without your veil, are you, tramp?” Lorraine spat. “Clara, catch!”
Lorraine threw the veil at her. Clara caught it, bewildered. “Lorraine, what are you—”
“You geeve zat back right now!” Anastasia growled, and ran straight at Clara.
Clara took off, running around the room with Anastasia chasing her. She threw the veil back to Lorraine, laughing. This was definitely one way to intimidate a girl.
They tossed the veil back and forth a few more times, taunting Anastasia. The girl was enraged as she ran back and forth between them like an angry little poodle desperately seeking a favorite chew toy.
After a few minutes, Lorraine ran with the veil toward a door marked ONLY USE IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, and Anastasia followed. “Here you go,” Lorraine said, handing the veil back to Anastasia. As soon as she started to pin it back on, Lorraine caught the train of her wedding dress and pulled the enormous skirt straight up over her head.
And, yes, there was a hoopskirt underneath.
“Que faites-vous!” Anastasia screamed, her shrill voice muffled by the taffeta skirt now covering her face. “Lâchez-moi! Lâchez-moi maintenant!”
Lorraine bunched the hem of the skirt in a wad over Anastasia’s head, reaching on her tiptoes to make sure Anastasia couldn’t punch it open with her fists. “Open the fire door!” Lorraine called to Clara.
“What!” Clara exclaimed. “Are you insane? We’re supposed to get her to admit the truth—not kidnap her!”
“I’m not going to kidnap her. We’ll probably never get another chance to talk to her,” Lorraine replied as she fought a squirming Anastasia, who was kicking and screaming, trying to tear away at the dress. “Now open the fire door!”
Of course she was going about it all wrong—it was Lorraine, what else could Clara expect—but she also had a point. Clara wrenched the door open and the room filled with the urgent, ringing sound of an alarm. Lorraine pushed Anastasia into a deserted alley behind the salon, letting the door close behind them.
They stepped out onto dirty gray bricks; the back of a beige stone building faced them. Anastasia’s screams were even more grating now that Lorraine had let go of her skirt. Half of it fell down, back to her ankles, while the other half hung stubbornly over her face. “Chiennes! Dingues! Salopes!”
Clara didn’t know French, but it was clear Anastasia was calling Clara and Lorraine every nasty insult she could come up with.
“You make sure she stays put!” Lorraine said, and left Clara the lovely deed of holding Anastasia by her arms. Clara could only pray the skirt didn’t slip all the way back down. Anastasia was definitely the sort who would resort to biting if necessary.
Lorraine walked back to the door and pulled off one of her green pumps. She jammed it through the door handle and big hasp. The shoe would keep the shop ladies out of the alley for now, but it probably wouldn’t hold for long.
Lorraine hobbled back, trying to keep her shoeless foot off the grimy brick street. She didn’t care about practically kidnapping a woman or setting off a fire alarm, but heaven forbid her stockings get dirty. “All right, we need to make this girl talk,” she said, “and this is the way it’s done in the movies!” She pulled the skirt completely away from Anastasia’s face.
The con woman narrowed her brown eyes and looked back and forth across the alley, searching for help.
“No one’s coming for you, so you might as well listen to what we have to say,” Lorraine said. Anastasia scowled. “Now, you’re going to call off your wedding to Marcus.”
“And why would I do zat?”
The woman did do a fantastic French accent. Clara felt a tickle of doubt in her stomach. What if Solomon had been wrong? But she pushed it away. Solomon was the best PI in New York—he wouldn’t have gotten where he was without some sharp eyes.
“Because if you don’t, we’ll expose you,” Clara said.
“Zere is nuzzing to expose!” Anastasia yelled. “You are both just ravisseurs diaboliques!”
“How dare you!” Lorraine raged. “I don’t even know what that means, but I am highly offended.”
Just then, Clara heard banging on the fire door and looked at Anastasia. They didn’t have much time. “We know what you’re doing,” she said quickly. “You’re only marrying Marcus for his money. Just admit it!”
“But I love Marcus,” Anastasia whimpered.
“The only thing you love is lying, you filthy … liar!” Lorraine said, shaking her fist.
“Stop trying to play us like you do everyone else,” Clara said. “I know all about you, Deirdre Van Doren.” Anastasia’s brown eyes widened just a fraction and gave Clara the courage to keep going. “About your record—the burglaries, the assault charges, how you’ve tried to swindle about a dozen other beaus before Marcus came along. If you confess now and break your engagement to Marcus, we’ll let you leave gracefully. You don’t want to get arrested again, do you?”
“Yeah!” Lorraine said. “Throw yourself upon the mercy of the court!”
But the woman wouldn’t budge. “I ’ave no idea what you are talkeeng about. Now un’and me!”
More banging on the fire door. “Listen, Deirdre, I write for a little magazine called the Manhattanite, maybe you’ve heard of it? If you don’t call off that wedding, I’m going to write an exposé, and everyone in New York, including Marcus, will read it. And I’ve got plenty to expose—believe me.”
Anastasia stared at her in silence for a moment. Was she going to come clean, admit the truth? But then she made a move to run away and Clara and Lorraine caught her by her arms. “You are assaulting me!” Anastasia said. “I will call ze police!”
“Go ahead and call them!” Lorraine said, digging her sharp nails into Anastasia’s bare arms.
If the police came and saw this scene, who would they believe? The dignified young woman in the wedding dress, or the two girls who’d dragged her from her fitting and held her hostage? It had been foolish to come here like this.
They’d tried intimidating Anastasia, they’d tried reasoning with her … what else could they do?
Then Clara had an idea.
“Lorraine, let her go,” Clara said, taking a step away. She looked at Lorraine over Anastasia’s shoulder and mouthed, Trust me. Lorraine hesitantly stepped back as well.
“We must be mistaken,” Clara said, her voice eerily calm. Lorraine opened her mouth to object, then closed it before speaking. Clara continued: “You look like someone else. We’re really sorry. We’re just going to run away now.”
Clara opened her handbag and withdrew her silver cigarette case. “Before we go, though, could I offer you a Gauloise? It’s the least I can do to make up for this whole mix-up.”
Anastasia stared at her for a moment, squinting, then relaxed. “I could use a cigarette after all ze stress.”
Clara lit the cigarette for her and watched as Anastasia inhaled. “Good smoke?”
“Mmm, oui,” Anastasia replied, and took another puff.
“Aha!” Clara said, clapping her hands. “That’s a Lucky Strike! A real Frenchwoman would know immediately that that isn’t a Gauloise! Those French cigarettes taste like tar buckets!”
“Gotcha!” Lorraine called triumphantly, as though she’d had any idea of what Clara had been doing. “Who’s the raveesur diaboleek now, eh?”
As though someone had flipped a switch, the girlish distress slipped right off Anastasia’s face. She didn’t look scared, happy, angry, or anything else—the woman was utterly blank. A fanciful, girly name like Anastasia no longer fit her. They were looking at Deirdre now.
The con woman stood up straighter and crossed her arms. She shrugged and gave a menacing little laugh. “Oh, fine, it doesn’t matter,” she said in an unaccented voice that was about an octave lower than it had been before. “No one will believe you two idiots, anyway.”
Suddenly the fire door banged open against Lorraine’s shoe, which fell to the ground. While Lorraine ran for her shoe, Deirdre pointed at her and Clara. “Zey are robbing me!” she cried in her thick fake accent.
“Stop, thieves!” Marguerite called out. She, Irene, and Jacqueline stepped out into the alley. Even little old biddies like them would catch Clara and Lorraine if they didn’t get out of here now. “The police are on their way!”
Police? Clara turned to Lorraine, who was still stumbling into her high heel.
“Run!” Clara shouted.