by Nan Ryan
Blackie stayed as he was for a moment, then shook his dark head, turned away, and hurried off down the Boardwalk toward Delaware Avenue and Dutchy’s Club in search of a card game or a cutie or both.
Robert ‘Blackie’ LaDuke the third was the devil-may-care black sheep scion of an old and illustrious family. His childhood had not been a particularly happy one. Displays of affection between his parents and their children were rare.
The raising of Blackie and his two older brothers was left mostly to the domestic staff. Sent away to a very proper school for young gentlemen when he was only seven years old, the precocious Blackie showed little interest in intellectual pursuits; a pattern that never changed.
Placed on scholastic probation his first year at Princeton, he was asked to leave the university in his second term. Blackie was reluctantly taken into the prosperous real estate firm jointly owned by his father and an old family friend, the powerful Judge Harry O’Connor. For a few short months Blackie worked hard, learned rapidly, and it appeared that he was going be an asset to the company.
But trouble had a way of following Blackie.
Just when his future seemed bright, bad luck intervened.
The widowed Judge Harry O’Connor had, only months before, married a gorgeous stage actress who was young enough to be his daughter. The new Mrs. O’Connor liked Blackie’s looks and let him know it.
And so it happened that on an afternoon when Blackie was supposedly with a prospective client, he was caught in a compromising situation with the new Mrs. O’Connor.
The good looking Blackie was used to receiving overtures from lonely, lovely women, but Mrs. O’Connor was persistent. He finally succumbed to her charms and he was the one who failed to escape retribution.
Mrs. O’Connor cried and swore it was all Blackie’s fault, she had wanted no part of him, but he wouldn’t leave her alone. He had heartlessly seduced her. Mrs. O’Connor was coddled and comforted by her powerful, white haired husband. Blackie was tossed out of the family firm.
Blackie’s parents were and always had been some of the wealthiest on Park Avenue, but they didn’t speak to their wayward youngest son. He was no longer welcome in the drawing rooms of Long Island cottages, though it was whispered he was still more than welcome in the some of the boudoirs of those cottages.
An extremely handsome, debonair young man, the jaded Blackie had for years provided the tabloids with meaty headlines because of his numerous lady friends.
From time to time his name had been linked with the young Princess Wilhelmina of the Netherlands, the lauded actress Ginny Lind, and Lady Randolph Churchill, twelve years his senior. Lovely Lilly Styvestant, known at home and abroad as the Park Avenue Goddess, had hardly allowed Blackie out of her sight since she spotted him buying French cigarettes in the lobby of the Waldorf Hotel one cold winter evening.
Now Blackie LaDuke had come down to Atlantic City to escape the heat of the city and the matrimonial heat being put on him by the willful Park Avenue Goddess. A resourceful man who generally managed to live almost as good as he did when he was actually rich, Blackie LaDuke would, for the next two weeks, occupy the lavish penthouse suite of the Atlantic Grand’s North Tower, thanks to the last of a small inheritance from his maternal grandmother.
His afternoon arrival at the seaside resort had already generated gossip, but Blackie was one guest who didn’t give a damn what people thought.
Lucy Hart did.
Mortified to find herself alone in such an awkward, awful position, and worried sick over the whereabouts of Theodore D. Mooney, she didn’t know what to do.
After freeing herself from the rude rounder, Lucy milled about in the opulent hotel lobby, searching in vain for yet another dark haired, dark eyed gentlemen dressed in a navy suit with a white gardenia in his lapel.
There were none.
Lucy finally went to the front desk. A short, slim man, neatly attired, his thin graying hair brushed carefully in place, looked up and smiled politely. His face, heavily lined, had no strong features save a pair of intelligent hazel eyes. “Yes? May I be of assistance, Miss?”
Lucy nodded. “I hope so.” She looked about, then quietly asked, hoping not to attract attention, if there had been any messages left for her. “Lucy Hart,” she told the clerk, “room 313.”
The slender man with the thinning gray hair looked at the empty box under which her room number was written, again faced her, and folded his hands on the marble counter.
“Not a thing, Miss. Were you expecting…?”
“Oh, no, no. I just…no.” She hurried away.
Sighing with frustration, Lucy sat down in one of the many wine upholstered chairs that were strategically arranged in clusters throughout the spacious hotel lobby. She purposely chose a chair that would give her an unobstructed view of both the hotel’s revolving doors and the beachside entrance. No one could get into or out of the lobby without her seeing him or her.
Lucy sat uneasily in the easy chair, nervously twisting the leaves of a nearby potted palm until she thought she’d scream. Dozens of people went in and out but none fit the description of Theodore D. Mooney.
After an interminably long hour, Lucy rose, squared her shoulders, marched back to the front desk, and asked again if she had received any messages. The frail, graying desk clerk’s answer was the same.
A disappointing no.
She nodded, smiled weakly, and moved away. She lifted the gold watch pinned to the bosom of her beige linen dress. Eleven o’clock. No use staying downstairs any longer. If Mr. Mooney should finally show up, he would surely have a hotel employee inform her immediately of his arrival.
Lucy went to the elevator. Eager to flee to the privacy of her room, she stepped into the box-like conveyance and started to give the uniformed operator her floor number.
Before she could speak, he said proudly, “Third floor, isn’t it?”
Lucy stared at him. The man was young—just a boy really—and he was huge. He stood well over six foot, had hair the color of sand, and a neck that required a size eighteen shirt. His face was well scrubbed and he had a mouth full of teeth, all of them presently showing in a broad, open smile.
“Yes, that’s correct,” Lucy said, turning about and leaning her shoulders against the rear wall of the elevator.
“I’ve only missed a couple all afternoon,” the young man said, pleased.
“I beg your pardon.”
“Floor numbers,” he told her. “I pride myself on memorizing every guest’s floor.” He grinned at her. “My name’s Davey, Miss Hart. I took you up to three when you checked in this afternoon. Then I brought you back down around eight o’clock.”
“Why, yes, you did,” she nodded, recalling him now that she was no longer as excited as before. “We have something in common, Davey. I’m the postmistress of Colonias, New York and I pride myself on memorizing postal box numbers.”
“Hey, I bet you’re good at it,” Davey’s grin was ear to ear now. “You’re a postmistress?” He whistled under his breath. “I didn’t know there was such a thing as lady postmaster…ah…a…mistress.”
“There are very few,” Lucy told him. Then; “Now, if you’ll kindly take me back up to the…”
“Please hold that car, Davey, my boy,” came a low, rich masculine voice.
An imposing gentleman stepped into the elevator. Immaculately attired in a silver gray summer suit that matched his fine, full head of gleaming silver hair, he was tall, dignified, massive and magnificent. In his lapel was a red carnation and in his hand an ivory-handled walking cane.
“Miss,” the silver haired gentleman smiled warmly and nodded to Lucy.
“Sir,” she acknowledged softly, studying his strong-featured face. He could have been any age between forty and sixty, a handsome, dignified individual who immediately put her in mind of her beloved father. She liked him on sight.
“Evening, Colonel.” Davey’s ham-like white-gloved hand slid the elevator’s folding inner door acr
oss the opening in preparation for the car’s ascent. “You two know each other yet?” Davey asked before putting the elevator in motion.
“I’ve not had the pleasure,” said the tall, silver haired gentleman and Lucy could tell by his slow, courteous speech that he was a southerner.
Beaming, Davey made the introductions.
Colonel Cort Mitchell, the neatly clipped mustache above his smiling pink lips a stark silver white against his sun darkened skin, took her hand in his, said, “Pleased to meet you, Miss Hart,” and then said no more.
“My pleasure, Colonel Mitchell.”
His keen gray eyes quickly discerning a touch of misery in her clear green gaze, he immediately wished he could fix whatever had gone wrong for her.
He said in a slow, gentle drawl, “May you enjoy every moment of your stay in Atlantic City, child.”
“You’re most kind, Colonel,” Lucy replied, concealing from this gracious southern gentleman that there was little chance of that.
“Guess what Miss Hart is back in Colonias, Colonel,” said Davey.
“Ah, that’s too easy,” said the Colonel diplomatically. His eyes and his manner warm, he smiled at Lucy and said, “One of the prettiest young ladies in town.”
“Naw,” Davey shook his sandy head, thought how that sounded, and quickly corrected himself. “I mean, yes, she’s that, but that’s not all. She’s the postmistress!”
The car began to rise.
“And a most competent one, I’m sure,” Colonel Mitchell said.
Both Davey and the silver haired Colonel wished Lucy a pleasant good evening when the elevator door opened at the third floor and she stepped out into the deserted corridor.
And then Lucy was alone in her silent room.
She sighed wearily and kicked off the newly purchased kid slippers, which were pinching her toes. She wandered restlessly out onto the small balcony and inhaled deeply of the heavy, sea-scented night air.
She stood gripping the smooth white railing, leaning out, and looking down at the hotel’s broad veranda with its empty wicker rockers moving slowly back and forth in the rising night winds. Her gaze slid over to the steep center steps where she had stood earlier with the incorrigible Blackie LaDuke.
A handsome couple stood there now in the exact same spot, in the same exact way. The young man below turned facing the girl who stood on bottom step. The skirts of her blue summer dress were billowing in the breeze, wrapping around her companion’s white trousered legs. The pair whispered and laughed as though they shared delightful secrets.
Lucy sighed again and looked away from the happy couple. She focused on the dark, restless ocean stretching to infinity in the pale moonlight. Foamy, white-capped breakers rolled in and splashed loudly on the Jersey shore. Voices and laughter carried on the night air as lively, lighthearted people strolled up and down the wooden Boardwalk and trod the sandy beaches below it.
Lucy felt an acute stab of loneliness.
She had so hoped that she and Mr. Mooney would be among their carefree number on this, her first night at the splendid seaside resort.
Now she wondered if it was to be her unfortunate fate to come and go from this romantic place without having done any of the exciting things the others took for granted.
Lucy’s disappointment abruptly gave way to concern. What if something terrible had happened to Mr. Mooney? Suppose he had been in a disastrous train accident and even now as she stood here feeling sorry for herself they were freeing his limp, lifeless body from the twisted steel wreckage. Or what if he…
Oh, for heaven sake, now she was being downright irrational! Nothing bad had happened to Theodore D. Mooney. Had there been a train wreck, the news would have already reached Atlantic City. He probably missed his train and would be on a later one.
There was every possibility that he was speeding across Pennsylvania toward the Jersey Shore this very moment.
He would come.
She knew he would.
And then the long planned holiday could really begin.
Chapter Seven
Lucy slept fitfully.
She was glad when morning finally came and a bright new sun spilled into room 313 of the Atlantic Grand and across her face.
Her eyes opened and she lay totally still for a long moment examining the unfamiliar surroundings.
Hers was, even at the astronomical sum of five dollars per night, one of the more modestly priced of the Atlantic Grand’s three hundred rooms. But it was a handsome, high ceilinged room nonetheless. The bed in which she lay was a large, sturdy four-poster canopied in yards and yards of gauzy white muslin.
Overhead, the thirteen-foot-high ceiling sported artful fretwork embellishments—scrolls and cherubs and angels with harps. On the floor a hand loomed carpet of lush aqua wool was bordered with intricate patterns of ivory flowers abloom and white sea gulls in flight. Accenting the striped wallpaper of pale aqua and cream, a long, comfortable aqua sofa sat directly across from the bed. Two wicker-backed chairs with aqua cushions were on either side of the sofa.
A chest of drawers, which was taller than she, stood against the wall. At the room’s center was a round drum table of gleaming cherry wood. A white porcelain vase sat atop the table, delicate, lovely, empty, crying out to be filled with a fragrant bouquet.
Lucy abruptly threw back the bed covers and rose. A degree of her former optimism returning, she hurriedly dressed, telling herself it was highly probable that Mr. Theodore D. Mooney was now a registered hotel guest. She’d be meeting him within the hour and he would explain what had happened and she would assure him no harm had been done and together they would laugh over the mix up.
Half an hour later Lucy, wearing a daffodil yellow cotton dress, her curly chestnut hair wound into a neat bun atop her head, left her sun-filled, third floor room. She moved hurriedly down the long hallway at a brisk, determined pace, her mood light once more, her hopes high.
At the elevator bank, she waited impatiently for the car. Toe tapping, she fidgeted nervously. She could hardly wait to get downstairs. What was keeping the elevator?
Finally a loud creaking of machinery and the heavy elevator door slid open. The muscular Davey was not on duty. She nodded almost imperceptibly to the short, bald, uniformed operator and stepped past him.
And found herself standing face to face with a disheveled, darkly whiskered Blackie LaDuke.
There was LaDuke leaning against the elevator’s rear wall with his eyes shut, his hands in his trouser pockets, his dark head sagging forward onto his chest. He wore the same clothes as when she’d stood outside with him last night on the Atlantic Grand’s rear steps.
Only now the hand tailored navy linen suit jacket had been removed and was tossed carelessly over his wide left shoulder. The wine silk tie was loosened and askew; the white shirt rumpled and unbuttoned half way down his dark chest.
There was a smudge of something that looked suspiciously like lip rouge on his unshaven jaw, a three corner tear in the knee of his fine, navy linen trousers, gritty grains of sand spilled from one turned down trouser cuff onto the floor of the elevator.
“Disgusting!” Lucy murmured to herself.
“I heard that,” said Blackie and long sweeping lashes lifted over bloodshot dark eyes. He grinned. “Morning, Lucy. I trust you’ll excuse me if I don’t get up.”
“You silly goose, you are up,” she snapped, cutting her eyes at the elevator operator, hoping he didn’t think she and Blackie LaDuke were actually acquainted.
“I am?” Blackie lifted his dark head with effort, looked curiously at her, and added, “Well, of course I am. I always rise for a lady.”
Lucy rolled her eyes heavenward. The car lurched into movement. Lucy very nearly lost her balance. Blackie’s slightly unfocused dark eyes widened. He reached out, grabbed her, pulled her flush against him, and declared, “Jesus God, hold on tight, Lucy. It’s an earthquake!”
The balding elevator operator laughed.
Lucy did
not.
Her jaw rigid, face flaming, she promptly pulled away, put her hands on her hips, and said acidly, “Mr. LaDuke, you obviously need a keeper, but you’ll have to look elsewhere.” She dramatically brushed herself off as if being next to him had contaminated her. “I have better things to do than suffer drunken fools.”
“I am not drunk,” he defended himself, taking no offense at being called a fool. “I’m just sleepy. May I lay my weary head on your shoulder?”
“Oh!” She whirled around, stood facing the front of the car. Over her shoulder she said, “Do me a favor, Mr. LaDuke.”
“If I can,” said Blackie and, grinning wickedly, puckered his wide full lips and blew ever so gently on the exposed nape of Lucy’s delicate neck.
Lucy immediately lifted a hand to rub the back of her neck, unsure if she’d actually felt anything or if it was her imagination. She brushed at the sensitive flesh, lowered her hand, and continued to stare straight ahead. Behind her, Blackie’s bloodshot black eyes twinkled.
He leaned a fraction closer, puckered, and blew a little more forcefully. A shudder ran through Lucy’s slender frame. Her hand flew up, wrapped protectively around the back of her neck while her green eyes narrowed with growing suspicion.
Seconds passed.
Nothing happened.
Warily, she lowered her hand and spun about catching him just as Blackie was puckering again.
Her spread fingers smacked roughly over his puckered lips, surprising him, and, no longer concerning herself with what the elevator operator thought, Lucy said, “Back home in Colonias a four year old child lives next door to me and she is more mature than you.” She withdrew her hand, rubbed her fingers on her skirt. “Isn’t it time you gave some consideration to growing up and behaving like an adult?”
Before he could reply the car stopped at the ground floor and the operator threw the door open. Lucy marched grandly out into the crowded lobby, leaving Blackie calling after her, “The favor? What’s the favor, Lucy? You forgot to ask me.”
