“Are we friends?” he asked.
“I certainly hope so,” I said. “Otherwise I’ve made a complete fool of myself, and I’ll have to scurry home in shame.”
“Well, we can’t have that. I’m determined to make you fall in love with Chicago.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, eyebrows raised.
“So you’ll stay.”
I grinned, delighted that he was already talking about the future.
Over the following week, Matthew insisted on acting as my companion, rediscovering the city he claimed as his hometown but didn’t really know. The product of a New England boarding school and college, he’d spent most of the past few years in Europe on business, so in many ways he was as much a sightseer as I was. When I heard about the roller coaster at Riverview Park, I begged Matthew to take me, even though he jokingly rolled his eyes and said it wasn’t his usual crowd. I screamed and clutched his hand as we careened down the stomach-churning drops, and as our car slowed to a stop, he wrapped one arm around my shoulders. It was the first time Matthew offered an opening, and I took it. I leaned my head up, and he leaned his down, and we kissed in full view of the factory workers and their families, the bored ticket takers and the disapproving nannies. It wasn’t more than a quick peck, but it felt like I was back at the top of the steepest drop, my skin tingling with nervous anticipation.
Then Matthew was standing, offering me his hand, and the ride was over. He let go of my fingers as we wound our way to the exit, and there were no more displays of affection, though I tried to signal they’d be welcome by brushing against him when I could. We reverted to our friendly but cautious selves, as if the kiss had never happened. I was beginning to wonder if he regretted it, and then he suggested dinner at the Drake Hotel.
“It’s time I took you somewhere nice.”
I told him I’d have to change before going to such a swanky place, but Matthew laughed and said I looked just fine. His look of pleased satisfaction was enough to reassure me until we arrived at the hotel, where I had to pretend to ignore the glances and whispers exchanged all around us. Matthew nodded curtly to a few fellow diners, but he didn’t greet anyone by name, and he grew steadily more silent as the meal progressed. Confused and disappointed, I tried to revive the romantic sparks between us, but Matthew answered my flirtatious questions in a monotone voice. When the waiter asked about dessert, Matthew abruptly demanded the check and said we had to leave for another engagement.
We emerged onto Michigan Avenue, which was hazy in the dim light of sunset.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“It’s a surprise.” He hailed a taxi, and we were soon settled inside. “Won’t take long. It’s not far.”
Only a few days earlier, I would have been thrilled to be whisked away on a mysterious outing. Now, I was hurt by Matthew’s secretiveness and by his eagerness to avoid anything below the surface of our conversations. Throughout dinner, I’d waited for him to mention our kiss, to acknowledge that it had meant something. Because if it hadn’t, I’d judged Matthew—and myself—all wrong.
“I need to tell you something.” I lowered my voice so the driver wouldn’t overhear. “I got a letter from my mother yesterday. Asking when I was coming home.”
She’d had plenty more to say, too. Questions about whether I’d landed my big catch and exactly how much money the Lemonts had. But Matthew didn’t need to know about that. I’d burned the letter right after reading it.
“There’s no rush to get back, is there?” Matthew asked. “We’re having such fun.”
“Yes, but I can’t live off Blanche’s charity forever. I need a job and a place to live. I have to start being practical.”
“So, you want to stay?”
“Why wouldn’t I, with this kind of welcome?”
Matthew took hold of my hands. “I’m so glad, but I don’t want you worrying about money. Let me help.”
“No! Can’t you see how that would look? Like I was some sort of . . . kept woman.”
The mortification on Matthew’s face made it clear he’d had no such intention, thank God. I wouldn’t be tempted to follow my mother’s example.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll figure something out.” I decided not to tell him Blanche had offered to get me a job at the Pharaoh’s Club as a cigarette girl, vamping around in a gold slave-girl costume. I already knew he wouldn’t approve.
The taxi pulled to a halt, and the driver announced, “Chicago Theatre.” I stepped out and gawked at the enormous illuminated sign across the street.
“You said you’d never seen a talkie,” Matthew said from behind me. “Now’s your chance.”
The lobby and the sprawling movie palace inside were so ornate that I wondered how anyone could concentrate on the pictures, but Matthew barely responded to my eager comments. I followed him up to the balcony, where only a scattering of seats were filled, and settled in next to him. When the newsreel started, he reached his arm around me.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so dense,” he said.
“It’s all right.” Already distracted by the images on the giant screen, I was ready to escape into a fantasy world. To let go of the questions that churned through my mind whenever I was with Matthew: What are we doing? What comes next?
“I don’t want you worrying about money,” he said. “I don’t want you worrying about anything. From now on, I’m going to take care of you.”
“I already said—”
“I want to marry you, Kate. I’m head over heels in love with you, so why wait?”
My heart surged with a relief so intense and overwhelming I could hardly breathe. I’d done it. I’d convinced Matthew Lemont to marry me.
Or had I? Matthew was in love with Kate Moore, a role I’d crafted to please him. He didn’t know the truth about my family; he didn’t even know my real name. I’d pursued Matthew the way my gambler father chased a royal flush, never really believing it would pay off. Now I had the proposal I’d dreamed of, but I couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“Dear God, I’m such a dolt,” Matthew said. He looked nervous and fretful, a little boy craving reassurance. “I’ve gone about this all wrong. I should have bought you flowers and chocolates and asked your father for permission . . .”
He stopped, flustered, remembering my father was dead. I imagined Matthew telling my mother, how she’d shriek with joy. Matthew’s polite reserve giving way to shock when she told a dirty joke or let slip a compromising detail from her past.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
Matthew’s anxious expression softened. “I want to marry you. More than anything.”
Unlike Matthew, I wasn’t deliriously in love; I’d spent a lifetime keeping my emotions locked tight. But I genuinely liked him, and I knew he’d be kind. Don’t think, I told myself. Leap.