Ingenue (22 page)

Clara was still angry when she entered her apartment in Brooklyn.

She slipped off her heels, set her purse on the kitchen table, and walked into her bedroom, where she found Marcus sitting at her desk. It was strewn with notes she’d written before she left for the Opera House—the details about Gloria’s situation with Carlito.

From the look on Marcus’s scowling face, it was clear he’d read all of it. “I cannot believe you would do this.”

“I wasn’t going to publish it. That’s just for me, so I could practice—”

“I don’t believe you!”

She backed out of the bedroom, shaken. Marcus had never raised his voice to her.

Marcus followed, the notes crushed in his hands. “I’m going to find Gloria. I’ve got to save her before your selfishness gets her arrested or killed.” He tossed the pages into the trash. “Why I ever believed you’d changed, I can’t imagine.” He grabbed his jacket off the back of a chair and strode toward the door.

“I don’t want to see you again,” he said, his hand on the doorknob. “But then, I haven’t really seen you all summer, anyway. Not the Clara I fell in love with.”

With that, he slammed the door behind him.

Clara sat with her elbows on her knees, trying not to cry but unable to stop herself.

Then she heard a knock.
Oh, thank goodness
. He’d come back.

She wiped her eyes and swung open the door.

But instead of Marcus, she saw a striking black girl. The girl was wearing a simple but pretty yellow dress. Something about her looked familiar, but Clara couldn’t put her finger on what. A handsome black man with a black eye stood beside the girl, looking dapper in a tan suit and blue shirt.

“May I help you?” Clara asked.

“I certainly hope so,” the girl said. “I’m Vera Johnson. Jerome’s sister.”

This was all too much to handle. “Oh my,” Clara said softly, her knees going weak. “You and I really need to talk.”

And then she crumpled to the floor.

VERA

Clara Knowles was so much more glamorous than Vera remembered.

Vera remembered Clara’s coming with Gloria to the Green Mill. Back then, Clara had seemed like a refugee from Victorian times, looking as if she’d been dressed by her grandmother.

But
this
Clara would have been at home on the cover of a magazine, modeling the latest fashions. She was some kind of beautiful. Swanky and stylish and radiating the kind of smarts that made her look sexier than any eighteen-year-old had the right to be. Her face looked just as perfect, aside from the fact that her mascara was running a little.

Or rather, that was how she
had
looked. Now she was passed out.

“Hold her head,” Vera said to Evan, who’d caught Clara when she’d swooned. Vera went inside and wet a dish towel in the kitchen sink. Then she mopped Clara’s forehead with it.

Slowly, Clara’s eyes fluttered open.

“Are you okay?” Vera asked.

“I’m fine now. Thank you,” Clara said. She woozily got to her feet. “Um, come in. Please.”

The living room was sparsely furnished with a blue sofa and an armchair, two lamps, and a lovely mahogany coffee table.

Clara collapsed into the armchair. “And you are?” she asked, turning to Evan.

“Evan,” he said. “An old bandmate of Jerome’s.”

“I see,” Clara said. “I’m sorry about just now. It’s not you—it’s just, well … It’s been an eventful day. How’d you find me?”

“Well, it’s a little complicated,” Vera began.

Vera hadn’t even realized how long she’d been talking—about what had happened back in Chicago, about the assassin and Bastian and Carlito—until she glanced at the clock. It was getting close to five in the afternoon. “We saved time and just went to the offices of the magazine and talked to a handsome fellow there.”

There was only one handsome fellow at the
Manhattanite
. “That would have been Parker,” Clara said.

“That’s him. Once we explained that we’d known you back in Chicago, he gave us your address and phone number. We tried calling, but you weren’t home.”

“I was out looking for Gloria.”

Vera leaned forward. “That’s why we’re here—we’ve
got
to warn my brother and Gloria about Carlito.”

“Hmm,” Clara said, frowning. “All I really know is that Gloria is working as the singer at the Opera House. It’s a speakeasy downtown.” She got up to pull a notepad out of her black purse. “I’ll write down directions. Gloria and Jerome are supposed to perform there tomorrow, but it’s a trap set up by Carlito Macharelli and”—she grimaced—“some awful person we used to know in Chicago.”

Clara tore off the sheet of paper and gave it to them. “I’m not really sure what to do except go there and warn her and Jerome.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Vera said.

Clara frowned. “It’s a whites-only club, I’m afraid. You won’t be able to get inside.”

“Who said anything about getting inside?” Evan said. “Way I see it is that they’re going to have to take Gloria and Jerome
out
of there. And we’ll be waiting.”

Clara hesitated. “I’m not sure you two have the muscle to slow down a bunch of gangsters.”

“And who said anything about it being just us two?” Evan said. “Me and Jerome? We know a lot of people. And we take care of our own.”

As they walked out of Clara’s brownstone, Vera looked longingly at Evan, at the way the summer sun bounced off his dark skin.

“What are you staring at?” he asked playfully.

She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Things are about to get really messy.” She thought of Bastian’s dark blood seeping into the planks of that faraway dock, of Evan himself tied up and gagged in a closet. “Things already
are
messy. Jerome is my brother, Evan, and I have to go and save him. But you … you could leave right now.” She swallowed and looked at their intertwined hands. “You came with me to New York, and that was more than enough. More than I had any right to ask for.”

“No way,” Evan said. “You saved my life back there. I owe you. Besides”—he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, and his fingers lingered on her cheek—“I don’t
want
to leave. I belong here, with you.”

Part of Vera wanted to lean into him, to be as close as possible to this beautiful boy. But another part didn’t want him to feel how hard her heart was beating. How she felt about Evan—the wild craziness of their connection—was brand-new territory.

“Whatever happens,” he said, “I’m going to be here for you.”

Then he kissed her. Their lips touched, and it was so passionate and intense that Vera could hardly breathe. Whatever happened at the Opera House tomorrow, there was no guarantee there’d be more moments like this. So she just gave in and kissed him, holding him and trying to make up for lost time.

GLORIA

Gloria had never dreamed a speakeasy would become her port in a storm.

But as she descended the Opera House’s spiral staircase, the knot of dread in her stomach loosened a little. Since seeing the cops outside her apartment, she’d walked around the city with the constant fear that someone was following her. The only place where she felt safe was the Opera House—there, at least, no one knew who she really was.

Unable to go back to her apartment, she had spent the night in an around-the-clock diner. A waiter had been kind to her, letting her nod off now and again and keeping an eye on her. In the morning she’d walked around Central Park until she was exhausted, finally sitting on a bench near the Metropolitan Museum. Once evening rolled around, she freshened up her dress as best she could and went to work.

Spark and Hank the bartender both nodded hello as Gloria climbed the steps and went through the stage door. Tonight was her big debut, and all she was planning to worry about was singing her heart out. Everything else could wait for another day.

For a moment, she thought back to her debut at the Green Mill—the lights, the buzz, the onlookers in their fancy clothes drinking out of mismatched mugs and teacups, waiting and listening just for her. She remembered the exhilaration of standing in front of a microphone and digging deep into her soul and seeing what she was truly made of. There was nothing like singing.

Well, there was
almost
nothing like singing.

Being in love, Gloria thought—that was pretty special, too.

The women’s dressing room was at the end of the hallway, past a foul-smelling lavatory and a mirror hanging over a small table. Gloria sucked in her breath when she saw Jerome standing outside the door. He hadn’t changed into his suit yet—he was still wearing a blue checkered shirt and tan trousers.

Jerome looked tired, too. Still, somehow, in a way that only he could pull off, he managed to look more sexy and bohemian than weary and hungry. But Gloria worried: Was he eating enough? Getting enough sleep? Was he happy?

Then she remembered Marcie. Suddenly Gloria didn’t feel so bad. And she certainly didn’t care whether he was happy.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she said. He’d skipped a rehearsal—some of the guys in the band had said he was out looking for a new gig.

“I didn’t think
you
would come.” Jerome’s lips were tight, his jaw clenched. “Band doesn’t work without a piano player, but we would’ve been just fine without a singer.”

“I don’t usually quit things once I commit to them. Unlike you. What do you want, anyway?”

Jerome hooked his thumb at the door behind him, directly across the hall from the women’s dressing room. “This ain’t the Green Mill, sweetheart—you’re not the only one who gets a room to prepare.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” Gloria said, her voice rising. “Don’t ever—”

“Uh, excuse me?” Spark had come in from the stage. Along with his usual straw boater, he wore a long black coat with tails that seemed to engulf his body. “I’m just checkin’ to see if you two need anything.”

“Trust me,” Jerome said, crossing his arms, “nothin’ you offer will be good enough for this one. Some girls are too highfalutin for their own good.”

“Oh, please! Some men are too full of themselves and proud to ask for help when they
obviously
need it.”

“I never rejected your help!” Jerome said.

“Right, just so long as I didn’t help
too
much. You’d rather just let us starve to death. At least your pride would be intact.”

“Heh, heh,” Spark said, straightening his red polka-dotted bow tie. “I see you two are getting along well! Let me know if you need anything.”

Gloria huffed. “It’d be nice to have a hot lemon tea, something to clear my throat.”

“But be careful,” Jerome said to Spark. “She might take a sip and decide it’s
too
hot. Then she’ll get mad at you for giving her
exactly
what she wanted.”

Gloria glared. “At least I’m brave enough to say what I want. Unlike some people.”

“Don’t do this girl any favors, Spark,” Jerome shot back. “She’ll only rip your head off for trying. Just like a praying mantis. Lady is lethal.”

“And you shouldn’t talk to
him
at all,” Gloria snapped. “Tell this wet blanket anything serious, and he’ll run scared. Boo-hoo!”

Gloria twisted the knob on the dressing room door and opened it. “Oh, golly! Look at me, walking inside my room without having to put on a disguise first!”

“There’s no disguising that whiny voice!” Jerome replied. “Maybe you could get me something that would block out her yammering, Spark.”

“You won’t be able to hear it from
Harlem
!” Gloria shouted, throwing up her arms. “Maybe you should do us all a favor and go back there.”

“Maybe I will—”

Spark raised his hands into the air. “Will you two give it a rest already? You sound like my parents, for God’s sake. I don’t care if you get along or not—just be out on that stage and smiling at ten o’clock.”

“Of course,” Jerome replied, breathing heavily. “
I’m
a professional.”

“I am, too!” Gloria yelled. “More professional than you, piano man!”

But Jerome had already shut the door to the men’s dressing room behind him.

Gloria groaned and walked inside the tiny space that was the women’s dressing room. The hardwood floors were filthy, but the large mirror with its border of lights came straight out of her singing-to-packed-crowds fantasies. A silver bin on the vanity held tins of powder and rouge, eye pencils in varying shades and thicknesses, and several tubes of lipstick.

Gloria sat in front of the vanity, pulled off her white cloche hat, and checked her hair. She slashed eye pencil along the edges of her eyes and the tiniest bit on her brows, then smudged on a smoky bit of kohl to make the green of her irises stand out. A dash of red lipstick made her lips look more kissable.

At the thought of kissing, a sigh escaped her. How could Jerome make her so angry, yet fill her with the desire to jump into his arms at the same time?

She inspected the clothing rack. There were silky and sequined numbers that must have belonged to previous singers. Spark had given Gloria a box of safety pins and said, “Meet your seamstress. If you got something spectacular at home, you go right ahead and bring it in. Otherwise you’re going to have to make do with one of these numbers.”

She removed a silk crêpe dress from its hanger. It was such a pale shade of pink that it looked almost white. Pearly white beads decorated the bodice and waistline. Gloria pulled on the sleeveless chemise that went under the dress, then the dress itself. She fastened the sides and smiled into the mirror.

Even though her heart was broken and her purse was nearly empty and she had nothing much to call her own—she had this job.

A chance to sing. A tiny bit of glamour.

However many wrong turns she’d taken in the past year, she’d kept one promise to herself: She’d become a complete and utter flapper. An independent woman.

A knock at the door, and then Spark’s voice: “I brought some lemon water for you two lovebirds. Try not to kill each other—at least not until after the show.”

Slipping her feet into white satin peep-toe heels, Gloria walked into the hall.

Jerome chose the same moment to emerge. Now he was dressed in a gray suit, a burgundy shirt, and a gray tie, his shoulders looking broad and masculine in the gray jacket. It wasn’t fair that he still got to be so damned good-looking when they were no longer together.

Jerome looked more elegant than Gloria had ever seen him. He looked like a man.

They arrived together in front of the table where a pitcher of water was sitting next to a single glass.

“Oh,” Gloria said. “You go ahead and take it.”

He nudged the glass toward her. “Naw, I’m not the one who has to sing.”

She could feel the corner of her mouth turn up. “Who only brings one water glass, anyway?”

Her heart hammered when he smiled back. “Well, between you and me, I’m not sure the cheese is still firmly on Spark’s cracker.”

“You think he’s really crazy, or just tanked?”

“Crazy. Though maybe he also gets drunk before he dresses himself in the morning.”

“God, I hope so. How else to explain his fashion sense?”

Then they were laughing.

Gloria tried to remember how long it had been since they’d done something as simply enjoyable as sharing a joke.

“How could you leave?” she asked softly. “I tried to apologize so many times … but you just wouldn’t listen.”

“I didn’t want to give you the chance. If I let you apologize, I wouldn’t have been able to go. Without me around, you actually have a shot at a normal life. You were right—you’re the one who has to jump through hoops and settle for less to be with me. A man from your … background could offer you so much more.”

“What about that girl Marcie staying at your boardinghouse?”

“Wait—how do you know about Marcie?”

“I kind of stowed away on the moving truck yesterday.” At the look on Jerome’s face, Gloria added, “I was worried! And this Marcie girl was in your room, telling the movers where to put your piano.”

He laughed. “Marcie Beebe? She’s Reverend Beebe’s daughter—she helps her father run the boardinghouse. She was just helping out while I was gone.”

“And you never … with her?”

“You really think I would do that to you?” Jerome asked, looking hurt. “That’s the thing with you, Glo—you make so much out of nothing, always jumping to conclusions. Like you did at the Cotton Club, thinking I was talking to Evan and Vera behind your back without hearing me out. Why can’t you just trust me?”

“I’m going to work on that, Jerome. But we’re still going to fight sometimes. That’s what couples do. And for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, onstage and in disguise, they stick together.”

Jerome broke into a smile. “That sounds a lot like marriage vows.”

Gloria knew her own smile was every bit as goofy as Jerome’s. “Hold that thought,” she said.

In the dressing room, she rifled through the contents of her shoulder bag and pulled out the black velvet box. She’d been carrying it around, meaning to return it to him, but now she was glad she hadn’t. Even holding it made her hands tremble as she thought about what was inside.

In the hallway again, she held it out to Jerome. “You need to do this again, the right way.”

Jerome opened the box and removed the gold ring. “Such a little thing makes such a big difference.”

“It’s not a little thing, Jerome.”

Oh, how it shimmered in the light!

“Is that how it works?” he asked. “You ordering me to propose?”

Gloria was about to backtrack, to apologize, but then Jerome went down on one knee right there in the hallway.

His hand shook a little as he took her fingers in his. “Gloria Rose Carmody, I love you. I didn’t know what love was till I met you, didn’t know that I had it in me to care so much for someone else. I don’t want to be anything I’d have to be without you, and I don’t want to ever be far from your side. These past few days have been miserable.”

Gloria was going to have to redo her makeup if he went on much longer. She couldn’t hold back her tears.

“I love you, and I love you, and I love you so much.” He was weeping, too, but in the happiest way possible. “Not only are you beautiful and kind and true, but you have the most amazing singing voice I have ever heard, or ever will hear. Make music with me for the rest of my life. Please. Will you marry me?”

Gloria didn’t even have to think before gasping, “Yes!”

He slipped the ring onto her finger. The delicate gold band with its tiny, sparkling diamond looked more at home on her left ring finger than Bastian’s gaudy iceberg ever had.

Then she was in Jerome’s arms, and he was spinning her in circles. His lips found hers and they stayed locked that way, her hands gripping the back of his neck hard, pulling him closer, but never close enough. His grip was even stronger, clutching her hair, wandering over her neck, shoulders, and back with an almost desperate urgency. He pressed his chest hard against hers, and she could tell he wanted what she did: to be so close that nothing could separate them ever again. She hadn’t even realized how much she missed him until right this second.

Too soon, he pulled away. “Now all we have to do is find someone to actually marry us. Where it’s not against the law. Or going to get us killed.”

She cupped his cheek with her hand. “We will, Jerome, don’t worry.”

He took her hand and kissed the back of it, staining it with the red lipstick smeared on his mouth. “All right, Miss Rose. You better go finish getting ready for your debut.”

After one more quick kiss, Gloria returned to the dressing room. He loved her! Only her, as she loved him, body and soul. They would be together. Whatever obstacles they faced, they would face them together. She fluttered her fingers and looked at the tiny glinting diamond on her ring. She was his and he was hers and who gave a damn about her makeup?