AS SOON AS MARTIN hung up the telephone, he called the Plaza. There was no answer in the suite, but what did that mean? Only that Francis had left for the fair as planned, that Michael couldn’t hear Big Ben, let alone a telephone, and that Miss Bloch must have gone about her day. Hadn’t Rosemary said she was bound for Prague, or was it Budapest?
Still, there was no way around it. He had to go. He wanted to believe that the man on the phone was spouting nonsense, but he knew it was the truth, even before the man began to describe Martin’s boyhood home. He tried for the third time to knot his tie, but his hands were trembling so badly that he couldn’t make it work.
Explaining it all to Rosemary would be another matter. Missing the rehearsal was one thing—a lark. It had been a wonderful night, one that they would never forget. But the wedding? He couldn’t miss the wedding. And what about the reception? His band? If he left on this mad errand to stop Francis and save the king and prevent the next Great War, then by the time he got to Woodlawn the bride and groom would already be on their honeymoon. Rosemary, Peggy, the Dwyers, and John Hammond himself—they would all agree that they had been let down by Martin. Get used to it, Mr. Dwyer would say to Hammond. This kid is a walking, talking disappointment. Only Hammond wouldn’t stick around long enough to get used to it. The world was full of bandleaders, horn players, and lady singers who needed only one chance to impress. Hammond couldn’t waste time with time wasters.
Everything he had done this week and the weeks that led up to it was predicated on his faith in the band he had assembled. Hoop would blow that horn, Exley and Gaines would keep the rhythm swinging, and Martin would sit down at the piano—right where he had always belonged!—and take the whole outfit for a drive. He had quit his job for this, quit it and set the bridge burning! He had wanted Rosemary to see this thing he’d built, which would justify all the faith she put in him, all the times she’d deflected, ignored, or outright argued with her parents when they made their nasty comments, their tinker talk and What a shame and their disappointment so thick you could put it in a pot and call it soup. All of her forbearance—and, truth be told, she had put up with a fair bit of malarkey from Martin—would be recognized and paid back when she heard what this band could do.
But now. Christ, now.
Rosemary was in the children’s room, preparing Kate to be a flower girl. The dress had been ironed one last time, and Rosemary was slowly unwinding the curlers from Kate’s hair. She looked like a miniature Shirley Temple, and when Martin entered the room, she twirled in a circle to show off how well her dress could spin. Martin told her she was lovely—just lovely—but inside he was reeling with the news that she could have been orphaned, or worse.
He hadn’t known it, but there had been a black cloud hanging over his family, and if the man on the phone was to be believed, then that cloud had lifted. It was all because of Francis, and now Francis was going to unleash another kind of storm, one that would devastate the family in a whole different way. Kill the king? Martin was certain that it all went back to the farmhouse where Michael was nearly killed and Francis came away with the pile of money that had fueled their time in New York. What had Francis said? Fellas run off all the time? Only Francis had been found, and somehow the stupid bastard had wound up with a gun in his hand.
Martin couldn’t unspool the entire story for Rosemary—Francis, the gun, the call, the man who knew his parents—so he stuck to the parts that would most directly affect her: There was a problem, a big one, and he needed to go. He said he was likely to miss the wedding, but he would be back in time for the reception. It was a complete lie, but easier, in that moment, than the truth. Rosemary pressed him for details—was it Michael again? Francis? What was happening?—but Martin would only say that he’d explain it all at the reception. That he wouldn’t be leaving her at this moment if it weren’t important. That, if nothing else, she knew how badly he wanted to play with his band.
“And Rosemary,” he said. “About the reception. If”—he lied—“if I’m late, I need you to tell Hooper to start without me. To play bandleader till I get there.”
“Hooper? The one you told me about from Minton’s?” she said. “But isn’t he—”
“The best trumpet your father’s money could buy?” Martin avoided her eyes and checked his pockets: wallet, keys, cigarettes, lighter. He needed to get moving. “Just tell Hoop to keep things running. He knows the set list.”
“Wait just a minute,” she said. “The wedding starts in an hour, and you’re telling me now that you’re not going, and oh, by the way, you’ve got a colored musician—”
“Hoop doesn’t say colored.” Martin looped his tie around his neck and tried again with the knot. “I think he says Negro.”
Rosemary slapped him—a full-handed, Bette Davis slap, just like in the pictures. Kate, who had been sashaying around the room, warbling a tune, stopped, wide-eyed, and stared at her parents.
Martin put his hand to his jaw. He deserved at least that much, putting Rosemary through the wringer like this. But he was also wasting time, and needed to get moving.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tears were coming up in Rosemary’s eyes but she shook her head to fight them back. “Why don’t you tell me anything—about quitting your job, or your secret plan for what’s next, or why you’re suddenly skipping the wedding, or how your band is going to throw my parents into an absolute—”
“Because you would’ve worried!” he interjected. “And you would’ve tried to talk me out of it!”
They stood facing each other, unsure of what to say next. He had spoken the truth, as he saw it, but he’d also admitted that he didn’t trust her. Not completely. He muttered something, the makings of an apology, and ducked out of the girls’ room. His jacket—where had he left his jacket?
In the silence, Rosemary’s hand throbbed. She had never slapped anyone, not like that. She wondered if that was what her father felt, those times when he hit her mother, or had his hands gotten too callused to feel the buzz and the heat?
Martin reappeared in the doorway. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have to do this.” He had his jacket in his hands, the collar of it bunched in one fist. “And I should have left already. Jesus, the time.”
“Just tell me what’s happening.”
“I’ll explain it all at the reception.” He tried for a smile—composed, apologetic—but it came off as a grimace. “You can even slap me again, if it makes you feel any better.”