by Sophie Davis
“You must mean Carmen D’Angelo. Yes, I know her. She is a lovely dancer. I know her socially, but we aren’t what you would call friends. You say she was with you at the show? How odd, Andre failed to mention that.” Hadley shook her head. “That is very sweet of you to be concerned. I am sure Carmen is fine.”
“Are they close? Mr. Rosenthal and Ms. D’Angelo?”
The question was presumptuous, but Hemingway’s wife struck me as a gossip—an assumption I hoped was true.
Hadley rolled her eyes.
“On and off. Andre worships at her feet, as if she’s a Greek goddess,” she replied conspiratorially. “Carmen loves being worshipped, but finds Andre positively boring. They have a pattern of growing close for a time, until Carmen becomes tired of him. Then, they drift apart. But she always comes sniffing around when one of Andre’s books is released, or a particularly favorable review comes out. I should’ve guessed that she’d be interested again—that piece he wrote for the New Yorker has been the talk of the town.”
“In America, too,” I confirmed. “My brother and I both enjoyed it a great deal.”
“She must be the reason Andre has been making himself scarce lately,” Hadley continued. “I will have to tell Ernest, he’s been curious. He is making suggestions on Andre’s new manuscript, you know.”
My ears perked up. Jackpot.
“No, I didn’t know that,” I said innocently. “Does it have a working title? My brother will be delighted.”
“Hadley, darling, have you been keeping our new friend all to yourself?” a voice called.
Hadley and I turned in unison. The British woman was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, hands on her hips, and a mock pout on her thin lips.
“How terribly selfish of you,” she continued. “You know well that we all want the chance to learn more about Ms. Prince.”
“We were just talking, Maggie,” Hadley replied, sounding irritated by the interruption.
That made two of us. I wanted to finish our conversation.
Maggie stepped forward and reached for my hand, as if to drag me back into the kitchen. Since I had no interest in returning to Toklas’s domain and being put on a display like a dolphin during feeding time at the aquarium, I firmly pulled my hand free and mustered a polite smile.
“If you will both excuse me, I need to use the powder room. It’s down this hallway, correct?”
“Yes, on the left,” Hadley answered, pointing in the direction I’d seen the silhouette. Or thought I saw one, at least. As I’d told Hadley, I was jumpier than usual.
“Hurry back,” Maggie added.
Because both women were watching my retreat, I did enter the bathroom, even though I didn’t actually need to use the facilities. I took the opportunity to touchup my makeup and make sure my auburn locks were all in place. Even though a gold bangle covered my name tattoo, I dabbed another layer of concealer over the letters, just to be on the safe side.
The hallway was quiet when I cracked the bathroom door several inches and peered outside. Neither Hadley nor Maggie was anywhere in sight.
There was little chance I’d get Hadley alone again to finish our conversation. Not with Maggie and the other vultures on the hunt for juicy details about the murders. And Alice Toklas had made it clear that I was not welcome in the salon with the men. So, instead of returning to the party right away, I decided to step outside for some fresh air.
Just for a minute. Just to catch my breath and collect my thoughts.
THE GARDENS THAT wrapped around 27 rue de Fleurus were stunning. The bursting flora was skillfully cut through with winding stone pathways illuminated by the soft glow of electric lamps. Tall shrubs sculpted into artful designs were placed strategically along the walkways, creating intimate pockets of privacy.
From the overall design aesthetic, to each green leafy plant, colorful flower, and carved bench, Toklas had hand-selected it all. Like her wife, Alice clearly knew and appreciated true beauty.
I made a mental note to share my genuine admiration of her hard work. Maybe throwing a couple more gushing compliments her way would crack that seemingly impenetrable shell.
I strolled through the rows of Night-blooming Jasmine, inhaling the intoxicating aroma. As my stress melted away, I wondered again how this mission had gone to hell so quickly. All I needed now was a handbasket, and my journey would be complete
“A woman who prefers solitude to the intellectual conversation of her peers…how very interesting.”
I squinted into the darkness, though I was pretty sure I recognized the voice. Sure enough, Charles DuPree stepped out from the shadows.
“How lovely to see you again, Ms. Prince. If I may say so, you look particularly fetching tonight,” he said with a small, gallant bow.
Despite my sour mood, I smiled at his formality, as well as the compliment. Too drained to deal with appropriate etiquette, I answered him frankly.
“Do we really need to do this again? Please, just call me Stassi. After all, we have seen the inside of a police station together. I think that qualifies us as more than passing acquaintances.”
Charles grinned wickedly. “What if I prefer to call you Anastasia?”
“Trust me when I say, you really don’t want to find out,” I replied, working hard to sound intimidating. My lips twitched from the urge to smile, though, so I doubted Charles put much stock in my threat.
He laughed good-naturedly. “You are a very interesting woman, Stassi.”
“‘Interesting’?” I repeated..
“I have decided that I like that about you,” Charles continued, as if I hadn’t spoken.
“How very magnanimous of you,” I replied, sarcasm dripping from each word like grape jelly from an overstuffed PB&J.
He studied my face in the darkness, taking his turn on the carnival ride of uncertainty. Feeling magnanimous myself, I smiled to let him know I was teasing.
“Would you mind some company? Or would you prefer to continue your time of solitude?” he asked politely, shaking off the lingering doubt. “I do not want to disturb you, if you wish to be alone.”
“I would love the company,” I replied easily. Despite wanting nothing more than to be alone when I’d left Stein’s house, I found that I genuinely meant it.
Obviously pleased, Charles offered me his arm. I hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, and then accepted. Warmth infused my body from the inside out, the night suddenly not as chilly as it had been just a moment before. Trying my best to ignore the spark that had ignited a gentle fire in the pit of my stomach, I let Charles lead me through the gardens.
You can enjoy his attention, and the view he provides. But that’s it. Don’t go getting any silly romantic ideas, I told myself. You are here on a run and he is a means to an end, nothing more. You’ll be gone soon, and that’s that.
I relaxed and gave myself over to the experience of strolling through beautiful gardens on the arm of a handsome man under the cover of night.
The cool air was refreshing as it blew strands of hair around my face and tickled my neck. The mild bite was a welcome change from the stuffy atmosphere inside Stein’s home. Above us, the silvery-white moon played peek-a-boo with an invisible opponent. Ducking behind one cloud after another, it reappeared moments later and shone brilliant white light down on the stone pathway ahead of us.
The scene was amusingly romantic in the most cliché of ways. Because there was no awkward chatter to fill the silence, our physical contact was more apparent, if only to me. If I were a normal girl with a normal job, my thoughts certainly would’ve turned amorous.
But I was not a normal girl. And I most certainly did not have a normal job.
So, instead worrying about the smudge of lemon crème on my dress or wondering whether Charles was going to kiss me, I focused on the mission. The mission came first. It had to come first. My life, Gaige’s life, and countless other lives depended on that simple directive.
Up ahead, the pathway ended in a sm
all cul-de-sac surrounded by hedges, out of view of both the house and the rest of the gardens. There was a stone bench in the middle, and Charles motioned to it with a questioning look in his eyes. I took a seat. He removed the jacket of his suit, draping it around my shoulders before sitting beside me. Though he hadn’t asked, I was grateful for the warmth it provided.
“Thank you,” I said appreciatively.
“Of course,” Charles answered. “Tell me, Stassi, why are you out here alone? With a murderer on the loose, it is perhaps not safe for a young lady to be without accompaniment.”
There was subtle chastisement in his tone that normally would have bothered me. After all, I was perfectly capable of watching my own back, probably more so than Charles himself. And yet, my typical irritation didn’t come. Maybe it was anti-feminist of me, particularly in such a pivotal era for women’s rights, but I found that I appreciated his concern for my wellbeing.
I looked over and met his gaze with a shrug. “I just needed some air. A minute to catch my breath, you know?”
“Ah, yes. To us, you are like the mysterious girl who begins a new school mid-term—everyone is interested in you. Everyone wants to be your friend. Everyone wants to know your story, and perhaps become part of it themselves. It can be rather exhausting, I’d imagine.”
“That is an interesting way of putting it, though not inaccurate,” I agreed, even though the metaphor wasn’t one I could personally relate to. I’d never experienced school in a typical reading, writing, arithmetic fashion. “However, I’m not sure it’s me they’re interested in. Not my story, as much as the story I have to tell. I have already fielded many questions about the show last night, it appears that is where their interest lies.”
Charles nodded knowingly.
“This crowd does love a good bit of gossip.” He paused, as if debating his next words carefully. “How are you doing?”
“I’m having a wonderful time tonight,” I said. “The party is lovely, I’ve met so many interesting and friendly people.”
“That is not what I meant.”
I knew what he meant. What I didn’t know was how to respond to the question. Was I really okay? I had no idea.
“I’ve been better,” I admitted.
“Yes, well, that is to be expected. Ladies such as yourself are rarely questioned in a murder investigation.”
No, but criminals are, I thought with a hint of bitterness that was new for me.
Cyrus and the other syndicate heads could sugarcoat our job description with any flowery language they liked, but it all boiled down to one irrefutable truth: We were criminals. In the past, present, and future, we were criminals. I earned my very lucrative income by stealing. And I was okay with that. Ninety-nine percent of the time.
“I can honestly say that what happened the other night was a first for me,” I agreed.
“On a positive note, you can now add the experience to your curriculum vitae. Unless, of course, you only obtained an education to impress future suitors?”
Startled by the insult, I angled my body on the bench and glared over at him, not caring whether he found my reaction as out of line as I found his comment. Only, when Charles’s gaze met mine, there was a mischievous twinkle in his golden eyes. And his lips were pursed together, as if trying to suppress a smile.
“Forgive my rudeness. I happened to overhear your earlier conversation with Ms. Toklas,” he explained.
His grin was pure mirth, and I found my own lips curving upwards as the weight of the past few days lifted.
“Oh, right, that. Is she always so…,” I fumbled for an adjective that was both accurate and socially acceptable.
“Yes, I am afraid so,” Charles chuckled knowingly. “Her blunt nature still catches many of us off guard. But you handled her with the expertise of a horsewoman accustomed to difficult mounts.”
“I’ve had some experiences with stubborn asses,” I replied.
To my surprise, Charles didn’t as much as crack a smile. In fact, he seemed to have not heard me at all. The moon had chosen that moment to peek out from between clouds, and his gaze was focused intensely on my throat.
There was very little space between us as we sat facing each other on the stone bench, but Charles leaned in even closer. His handsome features glowed in the iridescent light, his jawline more pronounced, the gold of his hair more brilliant, the flecks of color in his eyes more hypnotic. I swallowed thickly.
Is he going to kiss me?
The question hovered next to my head like a thought bubble from a comic strip that needed to be popped. Kissing a handsome stranger was not going to aid the mission, not even a little bit. Paris was not my home and 1925 was not my time. Nothing could, would, or should come of a romantic entanglement with Charles DuPree. And that wasn’t fair to either of us.
Long, strong fingers, like those of a pianist, skimmed my collarbone. I shivered and Molly’s philosophy on love, life, and dating came to mind: All’s fair in love, war, and the pursuit of a good time.
A giggle bubbled up inside my throat, but evaporated when his eyes lingered on my own. Charles cupped my throat. The rough skin of his palm pressed just over my pulse, his thumb sliding underneath the gold chain of my locket. He brought his face impossibly closer, so near that his breath brushed my lips.
And then, voice low and husky, he asked the last question I would’ve expected.
“When did you get this?”
“STASS? YOU OUT here? Stass?”
Gaige’s singsong voice was an instant buzzkill.
Charles and I darted apart like two teenagers caught necking in the backseat of a car at some scenic spot called Lover’s Lane or Lookout Point. Charles’s fingers were still intertwined with my necklace, linking us together in our embarrassment. He hurriedly yanked his hand free, along with several strands of my hair, and then stood to put even more distance between us. I smoothed my dress into place, before following suit.
Heart still pounding, I called to my partner in a surprisingly even tone. “Back here, Gaige. In the garden.”
Footsteps echoing in the still night, as my partner rounded the house. I caught sight of Gaige immediately, the worry lines creasing his brow evident in the soft light from one of the electric lamps. The moment his gaze landed on my companion and me, his concern evaporated.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Gaige’s smirk showed enough enamel to see he no longer had his wisdom teeth. My partner crossed his arms over his chest, and stared back and forth between Charles and me.
“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Prince. Beautiful night, isn’t it?” Charles replied. He appeared to be the picture of calm, using manners to mask any discomfort he might have been experiencing. Only a slight twitch on the side of his neck belied his tone.
“You’re gallivanting around in the dark with my sister, Gaige will do,” my partner replied, taking the hand that Charles extended for a gentlemanly shake.
Pebbles crunched beneath the soles of Charles’s shoes as he shifted from one foot to the other. Gaige’s habit of reveling in awkward situations was clearly not something Charles was accustomed to, and it was making my new friend anxious.
Gaige’s gaze lingered on Charles for several beats, purposefully assessing him from head to toe. When my partner turned his attention back to me, his eyebrows had crawled halfway up his forehead, as if to ask, “This guy? Really?”
“You were looking for me?” I asked.
“Right. Time to go.”
“Go? Is the party over?” I asked, glancing around for a clock as though one of the trees might have a face and hands.
“Yes, dear sister. While you were receiving lessons on the local birds and bees with Mr. DuPree, the earth did continue to rotate. So much so, in fact, that the night’s festivities are at a close.”
“Then, if you will both excuse me,” I said demurely. “I simply must thank our hostesses for such a wonderful evening.”
Raucous laughter greeted me in the
courtyard at the front of Stein’s house. Partygoers had trickled out onto the steps and into the gardens, glasses brimming with champagne and wine in their hands. Several guests had decided to cut out the middleman and were drinking straight from bottles of assorted alcohol.
“Stassi, darling! There you are!” Hadley’s voice rang out above the din of boisterous conversations and laughter. She was on the arm of her husband—my first up-close look at Mr. Ernest Hemingway. Though he would go entirely gray later in life, his hair was still inky black in 1925, and ruffled as though he’d been running his hands through it all night.
“Ah, the infamous Miss Prince,” Ernest called, his voice a monotone that nevertheless commanded attention. “I had the pleasure of going a few rounds with your brother earlier today, he is quite brave.”
“He’s something alright,” I replied with a smile, walking over to join the couple in the middle of the courtyard.
Stein’s other guests flowed past us to the short line of cars waiting on the street. A particularly rowdy bunch made for a gorgeous convertible with the top down at the front of the line that didn’t seem nearly large enough for their numbers.
“I’m a fan, Mr. Hemingway, it is such an honor to meet you,” I said, refocusing my attention on Hadley and her husband.
And it true was—his was a rare gift. It was as if he possessed a perspective on human nature that few could see, and he conveyed his observations in a precise but illustrative fashion that was timeless. I couldn’t fathom having that sort of talent.
“Good, come have a drink with us and you can tell me all about my genius,” Ernest declared. Though the remark would’ve seemed joking from anyone else, his staid expression and my knowledge of his character told me that he was utterly serious.
“Oh yes, you simply must join us!” Hadley cried. “I was such a boar earlier, you must forgive my rudeness. We will be fast friends, you and I. I just know it. Come have a drink with us, say yes.”
More than to offer an apology, I got the distinct impression it was a desire for companionship that drove Hadley to extend the invitation. Still, I couldn’t help but laugh at her earnestness.
