Grace in the Wings

by Kari Bovee

  “The riding skirt would be so much easier to make,” Grace said. “And faster. Besides, don’t you think this has more of a western flair?” Grace fidgeted at the woman’s silence, hungry for approval.

  “I think it’s brilliant, dear. I’ll whip it up for you. I have the perfect gabardine. Do you think they should be lined? I think most definitely,” Lucile said, answering her own question. “I’ll get to work.”

  “Really?”

  Lucile put a hand over Grace’s. “You are quite talented, my dear.”

  Grace could feel her smile split her face until she remembered that she was traveling with the great Lucile, Lady Duff Gordon as Ziegfeld’s new star—a pretty face, a passable voice, a marginal dancer—but not a designer.

  With a robust booming of the engine’s whistle, they pulled into the train station where a large crowd had gathered with balloons and streamers, painting a colorful rainbow among the throngs of faces.

  “What are all these people doing here?” Grace asked, walking toward the sofa under the window. She pressed her knee into the cushions and leaned forward against the back of the sofa, resting her arms along the wooden top get a better look outside.

  “They’re here to see you,” Chet said from behind his paper.

  She turned from the window to glance at him but was greeted with only the black-and-white, finely pressed newspaper in front of his face.

  “Oh . . . yes.” She turned back to look at the crowds. “I keep forgetting.”

  Someone knocked at the door.

  “Yes?” Grace rang out, leaving her post at the window.

  “May I come in?” Donovan cracked the door and peeked in.

  “Of course.”

  Chet kept the paper up to his face.

  After a cursory glance at Chet, Donovan focused his attention on Grace. “We’re only in Kansas City for a few hours. You’ll make your introductory speech here, from the caboose’s platform, and then we’re being escorted to the Barstow School. It’s an innovative, very avant-garde preparatory school, newly founded by two fine ladies from Wellesley College.”

  “Will I have to speak at the school?”

  “No, we are only going on a tour, to see their creative teaching methods and smile at the children.”

  Grace pressed her hands together, feeling the moisture that had bloomed at the mere thought of giving her first speech, due in just a few minutes.

  “Very well.”

  Donovan seemed to notice her distress and placed his hand on her arm. “This is a short speech, mainly highlighting our stops along the way to California and paying special attention to your upcoming visit to the orphanage in New Mexico.” He handed his notes to Grace. She sat down, her eyes glued to the paper, trying to absorb every word.

  “You don’t have to memorize it verbatim,” Donovan explained as he sat down next to her. When his knee bumped against hers, Grace reflexively jerked away, stealing a glance at Chet, the newspaper still shielding his face. Donovan didn’t seem to notice. “Just get an idea of the highlights,” he said cheerily. “You’re going to be fine.”

  Grace tried a few lines out loud, her voice cracking and the paper shaking in her hands.

  “See,” Donovan said. “Perfect. Just like you.”

  Chet lowered the paper and gave her a disapproving frown. She half expected an eye roll. Instead, he folded the paper and plopped it down on the coffee table. “How soon ’til we need to be out on the platform?”

  “In about twenty minutes,” the publicist said. “But you can stay here with your paper. I have things completely in hand, my friend.”

  “Sure. Just like the last time she was scheduled to give a speech and you got her drunk on champagne. I will be accompanying both of you to the platform—and I’m not your friend.”

  Now Grace wanted to roll her eyes. The bickering between these two did not ease the nervous ache in her stomach. She’d rather Chet not be there on the platform to see her stumble over her words and blush crimson with embarrassment at all the attention focused on her. She’d much rather deal with him in a more controlled situation, with no danger of her making a complete fool of herself.

  She glanced up from her notes and caught him observing her, his face set in hard lines with the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. She quickly looked back down at the paper, trying to concentrate on the words and not the fluttering of her heart.

  Grace stepped onto the platform and into the warm, humid air. A hundred faces looked up at her, their expressions expectant and awestruck. Grace’s knees threatened to buckle, and she tried to breathe deeply as she stared out at the sea of people. The sounds of carts rolling and horse hooves clopping on the streets blended with the clamoring voices of the crowd, making her dizzy. She leaned against Donovan’s arm for support, but the set of Chet’s shoulders and the steely expression in his eyes as he scanned the crowd gave Grace the comfort she craved. He exuded a confidence that made her feel safe. She hoped she could find her voice to deliver her speech and focused on Chet’s determined assuredness.

  “May I read the speech?” she asked Donovan under her breath as she smiled and waved to the audience.

  “Absolutely not,” he said, squeezing her elbow. “Use the notes for reference, but eye contact is of the utmost importance. Look confident at all costs.”

  Grace cleared her throat, took another look at Chet. “Good people of Kansas City,” she said, projecting as well as she knew how. The crowd erupted with applause and then quieted, waiting for more. Grace conjured up the image of Sophia addressing her fans and emulated her famous theatrical gestures and affected speech. Before she knew it, she’d finished, and the crowd rang out their approval.

  Donovan led her back inside the caboose and took both of her hands in his. “Astounding, darling! Well done!”

  Grace gulped in air as if it were her first breath in the last ten minutes.

  “Yes, thank you. It wasn’t . . . horrible.”

  “Of course not! You are a natural—born to do this. They especially loved when you talked about visiting the orphanage. I could see it in their faces.”

  “I could, too.”

  Donovan grabbed her around the waist and folded her in his arms.

  Grace shoved him away, her hands on his chest. “Mr. Green, I hardly think an embrace is appropriate. You are my publicist, not my—”

  Chet walked into the caboose, carrying a newspaper, the brim of his hat hiding his eyes. Grace pulled her hands away from Donovan’s chest. Chet removed his hat, and his gaze settled on the two of them. An awkward stillness electrified the space in their triangle.

  “Everything all right here?” Chet asked.

  Grace stepped away from Donovan Green. “Yes, perfectly all right.”

  The three of them stood in silence, Chet and Donovan in a stare down. To Grace’s relief, a Pullman porter knocked and then stuck his head through the doorway of the car.

  He thrust a note into her publicist’s hand. “Telegram for you, sir.”

  Donovan took the note and pursed his lips in a disappointed frown. “The tour of the Barstow School has been canceled. They’ve had a water main break.”

  “Oh, how unfortunate,” Grace said, hoping the utter relief in her voice didn’t betray her. She’d had enough of crowds and appearances for one day. “Well, I think I will retire to Billie’s—my—car. I’m rather tired.”

  “Yes,” said Donovan. “We can hammer out the details for the rest of the trip, if you’d like.”

  “She said she’s tired.” Chet secured his hat back on his head.

  “Yes,” she reiterated. “I think I’ll read.”

  “Very well,” said Donovan. “Good day, then.” He nodded to Grace. Chet held the door open for him. Grace was about to squeeze herself past Chet and head into her bedroom when he stopped her. He handed her the paper, a copy of Variety.

  “I thought you should see this,” he said.

  She took the paper and perused the first page. She glanced
up at him, confused.

  “Page three,” he said.

  She flipped through until her eyes rested on the headline of page three: Ziegfeld Star’s California Funeral. Her jaw clenched at the memory that they’d had the funeral without her. Her eyes lowered to the photograph of a swarm of people approaching the casket. Grace’s breath caught in her throat. She surveyed the mourning faces: Jack, of course; his sister, Mary Pickford; and her husband, Douglas Fairbanks. And then she spotted a familiar face among the strangers. Grace squinted to get a better look at the woman underneath the large, dark hat.

  Lillian Lorraine.

  Grace turned down her brows in confusion. “Lillian? At my sister’s funeral? The woman couldn’t stand Sophia.” She looked up into Chet’s face.

  Chet shrugged. “She was in Los Angeles at the time. Probably wanted to be ‘seen’ paying her respects.” He paused. “Funny thing, though . . . I just saw her on the train. She’s headed back to Los Angeles. Says she has a picture. She must have gone to the funeral, come back to pester Flo about the part in his show, and is now headed back to California.”

  “I can’t begin to understand that woman. It always seemed like she was following my sister around. And now, me.”

  “This running back and forth to Los Angeles is a bit strange, but I think she’s harmless. Regardless, I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  Confused, Grace continued to peruse the article and stopped when she read, Liane Held, daughter of actress Anna Held and stepdaughter to Florenz Ziegfeld Jr., flew in from Europe to attend the funeral.

  Grace let her arms drop, banging the paper against her legs. “Liane Held, too? Why would she attend the funeral?”

  “Perhaps she thought Flo would be there. Maybe she wanted to see him?”

  “Why would Flo go and not take me? Flo didn’t even attend Anna’s funeral. Liane would know that he wouldn’t go all the way to Los Angeles for Sophia’s.” Grace’s mind was racing. “Sophia and I never even met Liane.”

  “Could be the same reason Lillian was there.” Chet quickly took the paper from her and folded it up. “I’ve heard that Miss Held is attempting to follow in her mother’s footsteps, to be an actress. Hollywood seems to be the place for that these days.”

  “But it just doesn’t make sense.”

  Chet put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, his mouth tight. “I’m sure they have their reasons.”

  That evening, Grace shared a meal with Lucile in the dining car. They sat in the center of the car in a curtained booth, the curtains spread wide at Grace’s insistence. She wanted to see everything that transpired around her. Chet insisted he come, but Lucile waved him off and promised she wouldn’t take her eyes off his charge.

  “Seems you two need a little space,” Lucile said to Grace as she raised a wineglass to her lips. “The tension between you two is pretty thick. Is that a good thing?”

  “I’ve not lived in such close quarters with anyone but Sophia. And the fact that he’s a man—” Grace stabbed at a piece of asparagus.

  “A very attractive man.”

  “You aren’t making it any easier.”

  Lucile reached over and patted Grace’s hand. “This is a very businesslike arrangement. Mr. Riker seems a professional in every way. You’ve no need to worry.”

  Grace pressed on a smile and picked at her food as Lucile prattled on about one of her new stores. Unable to finish her dinner, Grace set down her fork.

  “Lucile, do you mind if I return to my car? I feel a headache starting.” Grace pressed her fingers to her temple in an attempt to stop the throbbing. The constant strain of feeling as if she was being followed was taking its toll. Luckily, Lucile was agreeable, stating she had much work to do for their upcoming arrival in New Mexico anyway.

  “Just give me a moment. I will walk you back to your car,” Lucile said.

  “No, no, don’t worry about me. Enjoy the rest of your meal.”

  “But what about Chet?”

  “I’ll tell him you walked me back.” Grace smiled. “He’s probably still reading his paper.” Lucile looked uneasy. “Truly, I’ll be fine.” Grace smiled again and bid Lucile good night.

  Grace exited the dining car just as a group of new passengers were snaking their way through the railcars. When a family of five with three small children attempted to pass, Grace pressed herself against the wall as they pushed and shuffled down the corridor, their bulging suitcases bumping against her legs. Exasperated, Grace tried to be patient as she was squeezed against the wall. She looked through the windows to the next car and saw Lillian Lorraine, in her signature large hat, exchanging heated words with a man.

  The man leaned toward her, his finger pointing at her face. His brown suit looked worn, old, like he’d had it forever, and the sleeves were three to four inches short of his wrist. Lillian slapped the man’s hand away and her usually placid and smug porcelain expression turned to carved stone. Grace could hear nothing of their conversation with the chugging of the train and the constant creaking of the cars rattling along the track. The man raked off his hat, pointed that in Lillian’s face now, and seemed to be on the counterattack.

  Grace’s legs turned to water when she saw the large scar running across his forehead and down his temple. He stood only a hundred feet away from her. Her breath caught. Could it really be him? The man who’d tried to run her down with the car? The man she thought was dead?

  And what was he doing arguing with Lillian, let alone about what? How did they know each other?

  Grace’s knees wobbled even more. Chet had just told her Lillian was on the train, but why hadn’t Flo mentioned she would be going to California, too? Maybe he didn’t know. Grace took in a deep breath, trying to swallow her rapidly rising paranoia. She closed her eyes to steady her mind. She told herself that the man in the brown suit merely resembled the man from her past, and Lillian, never satisfied with her current situation, was probably going to California just to taunt Flo. But that still didn’t explain why they were together.

  She now wished Chet had accompanied her and Lucile to dinner. She should never have let him leave her side. He never should have let her leave his side.

  Grace pulled the brim of her hat lower over her eyes, and she pressed her way through the crowd, doing her best to hide her face from the man and Lillian. Once she had passed the other passengers, she ran down the aisle, her body bouncing off the walls as the train bent with a curve in the tracks. When she reached her private car, she frantically dug through her handbag for the keys. Mumbling under her breath and furtively looking behind her like a crazy person, her hands shook, her eyes unable to focus on the lock and key.

  Within seconds, just as she was sliding the key into the lock, Chet arrived behind her.

  “Grace,” he said, placing his hand over hers, steadying her. “Why are you alone? Where is Lady Duff Gordon?”

  “Oh.” Grace jumped at the sight of him and the feel of his hand on hers. “She just left.”

  Chet turned the key and barely got the door opened before Grace shot past him and into the parlor. She let out a huge sigh of relief, her back to him, and tried to still her shaking hands. She took off her hat, turned around to face Chet, and attempted to smile with confidence.

  “Are you all right? What happened?” he asked.

  Not sure if she could speak, Grace cleared her throat. Should she tell him she had seen a ghost? That she suspected a dead man and a jealous starlet were following her across the country? For what, she had no idea.

  No, she had to be wrong. What she had just seen had to be a delusion, an odd coincidence. Lillian Lorraine was known for her dramatic altercations with others. Her collusion with the man in the brown suit had just been a figment of Grace’s imagination. No need to set off any alarms or make her bodyguard feel even more protective.

  “Grace?”

  “I’m fine.” She fanned a hand in front of her face. “The crush of all those passengers unnerved me . . . but I’m fine.
I just needed some air.”

  “A week on a train does get a little claustrophobic. Perhaps I’ll go have a drink. Be sure to lock the door behind me.”

  “No!” she shouted.

  Chet gave her a quizzical look. “You don’t want me to have a drink, or you don’t want me to leave?”

  “Could you have a drink here?” Grace clasped her hands to keep them from shaking again. “I’m a little nervous and don’t want to be alone.”

  If she had seen the man she thought was dead very much alive, Chet would want to know for sure, which could possibly expose her to an accusation of attempted murder. Lillian Lorraine’s presence probably meant nothing, just the whim of a spoiled actress going to ludicrous lengths to get her way. The man in the brown suit might have simply insulted Lillian; it happened often, at least to Lillian’s perception. No, nothing good would come of Chet’s involvement. Grace could handle it for the time being.

  “I thought you wanted to be alone.” Chet put his hands into his pockets, confusion written on his face.

  “That was before. Now I don’t want to be alone.” She sounded ridiculous. What she wanted was to retreat into the bedroom and hide from everyone.

  Chet, completely dumbfounded, shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, I’ll order a drink to be brought here. Do you need anything? Champagne?”

  Stiffly, she shook her head. “Just don’t leave.” She walked into the bedroom and closed the door, irritated that she’d shown her vulnerability and praying the ghost had not come back to life.

  Chapter Fifteen

  That night, images of Sophia, Flo, Lillian, costumes, stages, trains, crowds, and the scarred man in the brown suit plagued Grace’s dreams. The desert heat trapped in the railcar made sleep impossible, and Grace tossed and turned, her sheer cotton nightgown wrapping around her waist and legs. Tangled and frustrated, she got up to untwist the nightgown and opened one of the small windows a crack. Perhaps if she cooled her face with some water she’d be better able to sleep. She tiptoed away from the bed so she wouldn’t wake Chet and made her way to the bathroom.