Mrs. Barrow grins. “I wondered what girl was lucky enough to be here with Jeremiah Crane. You put that lipstick on, honey. He’s a catch.”
Emma snaps the lid back on her makeup. “She’s already caught him. But Piper has a cute boyfriend. Detective Cassano, who helped with Lydia LeVine’s case. That young one?”
Mrs. Barrow pulls out her own compact, clearly intending to prolong the girl talk. “He’s cute all right, but a detective? You won’t have two nickels to rub together, doll.”
Better to be poor and married to someone honorable than wed to a rich devil in disguise like David Barrow. I wonder . . .
“Mrs. Barrow, maybe you could help us out with something. We’re hoping to go out after the show. Someplace where we could dance and get a gin fizz or two. Surely you know of a good place.”
I ignore the confused look Emma gives me.
Mrs. Barrow laughs, and her delight at being perceived as a lady who would know such things is obvious. “You two girls are so fresh and young, I imagine any place I’ve heard of, you’ve heard of.”
“I don’t know anywhere outside of John Barleycorn—”
Mrs. Barrow’s mouth presses into a line—excellent. “Anywhere but there is fine with me. David goes there because the men from work like it, but it’s awfully awkward when he runs into the nanny who used to work for us. Have you heard about this? Here I was, eight months pregnant, and she quit with no warning. As if working in a speakeasy was some lifelong dream of hers.”
“Terrible.” I infuse my voice with sympathy.
“Just awful,” Emma adds.
Mrs. Barrow snaps shut her compact and thrusts it into her handbag. “You think you know a person, and then they just walk right out on you. David knows I hate him going there, but being invited to Friday night pool is a coveted thing. Good for his career, you know. How can I refuse that?”
“You can’t, of course. I’m sorry to have upset you. I just thought you’d be the one to ask advice.”
Mrs. Barrow seems mollified by the compliment. “Green Door Tavern. If David and I meet up with friends, that’s where we go. Your father will have my head if he learns I told you that.”
But she can’t hide how pleased she is by the conversation.
As we leave the restroom, Emma murmurs, “What, exactly, did I just witness?”
I grin. “Nothing at all. Certainly nothing that should be repeated to anybody else.”
Friday night pool. I wonder what Mariano would think about hanging around John Barleycorn next Friday and seeing if David Barrow shows.
Jeremiah and Robbie are waiting in front of the theater with popcorn and Coca-Colas. Robbie is pleasant but ordinary looking—brown hair, brown eyes, and skin that’s neither tan nor noticeably fair. If I were trying to describe him to Mariano—goose bumps raise on my arm—I could just as easily be describing thousands of other American men.
When we settle into our seats, Emma arranges it so that Robbie and I are next to each other. Jeremiah offers me popcorn, but I wave him away. I only have a few minutes before the movie starts to talk to Robbie.
“I hear you’re new to Chicago, Mr. Thomas.”
“Call me Robbie, please. And, yes. I am.”
“Where are you from?”
“Here and there.” He shrugs and flashes an easy smile. “I’ve lived all over.”
“Is work the reason that you move so much?”
“Yes and no. But I hope to settle in Chicago.” He takes Emma’s hand in his and squeezes it. She beams up at him as if he’s wearing a halo.
And with those vague answers? My guess is he does not.
Robbie turns to Emma, and speaks in a voice so quiet that he undoubtedly means for their conversation to be private.
Hmm. What now?
“Why, exactly”—Jeremiah’s whispered words are warm in my ear—“are you casing Emma’s boyfriend?”
I turn to him and put on a smile. “Who, me?”
He chuckles. “It’s nice that you’re looking out for her.”
He again offers me the bag of popcorn, but I would have to lean quite close to him to reach. I shake my head. With a roll of his eyes, he extends his arm farther, and I take a handful.
“How are you doing, Piper? Really?” The thoughtfulness of his tone makes me squash the temptation to lie.
“I don’t know.” I take a deep breath and think of all the ways I could expound on that. How sometimes, as impossible as it seems, I forget what happened to Lydia, and I think about calling her. Only to be crushed when I realize I never will again. Or I could say that I still think about that day and the days following, hunting for clues that I might have missed. Or that most mornings I have to lie to myself just to be able to get out of bed.
But nothing seems quite right, so I just shrug at him and say again, “I don’t know.”
“When I heard the news about Matthew, I couldn’t believe it. Thinking about all the times I saw you girls get in the car with him . . .”