by JJ Knight
I extend my elbow and she slides her arm through it.
As we walk to the parking lot of the complex, she says. “I really love this suit. Where did you get it? A vintage shop?”
I glance down. It’s light brown with a long coat, and the vest beneath it is double breasted. “My sister had it made for an anniversary party of one of her friends. They got married at Hobo Speakeasy so we all needed proper outfits.”
I lead her to my red Ferrari. Tonight is definitely not a night for SpeedRide. The Hobo Speakeasy is used to extremely fancy valet service. It does make me laugh inside, however, to think about Chloe’s little yellow Volkswagen pulling up to their formal valet.
When we stop, she asks, “Is this yours?” She touches the gleaming hood. “Please tell me this isn’t your car.”
“Is there something bad I should know?” I ask. “The company? The car? Is it protesting material?”
She turns her head slowly as he looks at me. Then she laughs. “No. Not that I know of. I didn’t expect a car like this from you.”
I relax a little. “It was a gift.”
I definitely do not want to elaborate. The last thing I should point out is that she is riding in a car that was purchased by the man she ran from. Maybe I should have hired a limo after all. The Cure would have loaned me any of his. But that would be the same problem. Even worse if it turned out to be the limo she rode in before.
“Some gift,” she says. “Are you going to open the door?”
I hurry to the passenger side and tug it open. Chloe peers inside. “This is outrageous. I’ve never seen a car so perfect inside.” She turns to me. “I hope you’re not always this neat. I don’t think I can live with that.”
“You should see the inside of the closet in my room at the hotel,” I say. “That will calm all your fears.”
“Good,” she says as she slides into the seat. She runs her hands over the leather. “This is really nice.”
I close the door and hurry around the car to get in on my side. When I press the starter button, the engine fires up with a gentle hum.
“She runs like a dream,” Chloe says. “What did you name her?”
“What makes you think she’s a girl?”
“Oh, I can tell.”
“She actually doesn’t have a name.”
“What?” She pats the dash. “I’m so sorry, girl. I’ll make sure he takes better care of you from now on.”
So there could be a from now on?
My grin is a mile wide as I back out of the spot and head into the street. “Maybe after you ride in her for little while, you can help me come up with the perfect name.”
Chloe reaches out, touching various parts of the car. The console. The sleek controls. The shiny screen.
“I think she’ll start speaking to me,” she says.
“I know I would.” We enter the freeway.
“So where is this place?” Chloe asks.
“Not too far off Rodeo Drive. It’s unmarked. You would never know it’s there. You have to be told what the awning looks like. If your car hasn’t been registered with them when you pull up, they won’t come out to let you in.”
“Well, this is exciting.”
I reach over to hold her hand. She lets me take it.
“I’m glad you were willing to come,” I say.
“You tempted me with the perfect date,” she says. “How could I refuse?”
It’s hard for me to keep my eyes on the road. She’s so damn beautiful I want to stare at her all night.
I turn on the radio to distract me, and we talk about easy things as we drive. Favorite song. Concerts we’ve been to. I leave the freeway, and we cruise down Rodeo Drive, past all the exclusive shops, bright and sparkling.
“I can’t imagine the kind of people who get to shop there,” Chloe says.
“Neither can I,” I say. “Ninety-five percent of my wardrobe is purchased based on its ability to wick moisture.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. I don’t want to reference my fight training in any way.
But Chloe just laughs. “You’re such a boy. But I heartily approve of this other five percent.” She reaches over and tugs on the lapel of the suit jacket. “You look like you should be starring in some historical film. The handsome leading man.”
“Then you’re absolutely the femme fatale. You will lead me to my doom.”
We pull up to a red light. Well-dressed women, some of them with little dogs under their arms, cross the street in front of us. A few of them are followed by men carrying their bags. What a life.
“Should our story have a happy ending, Hollywood style?” Chloe asks. “Or should it be a noir, where there’s nothing but tragedy and destruction in the wake of our torrid affair.”
I reach over and tweak one of the perfect curls framing her face. “I think I’m going to go with the Hollywood ending,” I say. “Although I can see the appeal of the dramatic twist.”
This gets another laugh from her. “I’ve never had a conversation like this with anyone in my life. It’s fun.”
“You’re fun,” I say.
We get through the intersection, and I turn away from the main strip. We follow a small back street that leads to nothing that looks important, mostly loading docks for the shops and the rear employee entries of other businesses.
Chloe leans forward to peer out the front windshield. “You’d never expect anything fancy to be back here.”
“That’s why it’s a speakeasy,” I say. “They had to be hidden to serve alcohol during prohibition.”
I spot the striped awning just as before. As expected, it’s empty and the place looks shuttered.
“Are you sure it’s open?” Chloe asks.
“Oh, I’m sure. They don’t want a rush of cars at one time. It would be too obvious. So each reservation has a window. If you don’t arrive during it, they won’t come out and let you in.”
I pull up underneath the awning. For a moment, nothing happens. Then my phone chimes with a text message.
Code word.
I tap in my response.
Firewater moonshine.
Chloe peers over my shoulder. “This is completely cool.”
“The text will be the final anachronism,” I say. “Once we’re inside, we pay with one-hundred-year-old coins and drink brands that have existed since the twenties. If you mess up and let your cell phone ring or flash a credit card, they escort you out.”
“Wow!”
“They want the illusion to be complete.”
“Should I leave my phone in the car?”
“We both should.”
I lock them in the dash. After a moment, two men come outside. Both wear black outfits fashioned to indicate that they are staff.
One opens the passenger door. “My lady,” he says and helps Chloe out of the car.
The other comes around to my side. “Good evening, sir,” he says. “I will take care of your vehicle.”
“Thank you.” I walk around to join Chloe.
I take her hand as we’re ushered into a tiny room the size of maybe two elevators. It has no obvious way out other than the door we came in. The back wall is made of brick. It’s empty other than a single chair and a potted plant.
“This is strange,” Chloe says. She scoots a little closer to me. I grin. She’s going to love this.
“This way,” the doorman says. He gestures to the brick wall.
Beside me, Chloe clutches my arm. She has no idea what happens here.
“Are we going to pass through the wall?” she whispers. “Like in Harry Potter?”
“Something like that,” I say.
The man steps carefully to the center of the wall. With extreme precision, he lifts his arm and touches several bricks and pauses. After a few moments, he touches several more.
“Is it a hidden doorway?” Chloe whispers.
“Just watch,” I say.
There’s a faint click, and
then a section of the brick wall slides forward, revealing a red glow beyond.
“Oh, wow,” Chloe says.
“Follow me,” the man says.
Chloe remains attached to my arm as we pass through the opening in the bricks and into the red light.
It takes a moment for our eyes to adjust, but eventually we make out a red silk draped hallway. We continue down it a few yards, then the man pushes the silk aside, and presses on another hidden door.
The moment it opens, the sound reaches us. It’s a jazz number, played live. I can feel the excitement coming off Chloe. And I have to admit, the first time I came here, it was a surreal experience. I’m pleased to be able to share this secret place with her.
The man steps aside and gestures for us to continue into the room. Back in the far corner, the stage is brightly lit. Six musicians play in full formalwear.
Chloe leans in. “This is amazing.”
I squeeze her hand on my arm. On the far wall, a long wooden bar is lined with couples waiting on drinks. Part of the room is reserved as a dance floor, filled with couples swaying together.
The room is dim, the primary light coming from the band and sconces on the walls. Two crystal chandeliers float above us, their gaslight bowls flickering.
Round tables with upholstered wood chairs fill in the left side of the room. Quite a number of people sit among them in quiet conversation, smoking long cigarettes in elegant pearl holders and sipping drinks.
A woman sits against the wall next to a box stacked with beautiful beaded purses. Behind her is a rack of wraps and fur muffs. She sees me and asks, “Would your lady like to check her bag while you dance?”
I glance at Chloe and she nods. She passes the purse over to the woman, who sets it in the box. Then she hand writes a note about its size and color on a small piece of parchment with a tall quill of ink. She waves it a moment to let it dry, then folds it up and hands it to me.
“Thank you,” I say, and lay a nickel on the table.
“And thank you,” she replies.
As we walk away, Chloe whispers, “Only a nickel?”
“That’s the rules.”
“I think that brick wall was a time machine,” Chloe says.
“It’s a perfect illusion. Would you like a drink or to dance?”
She looks up at me. “You dance?”
“I do.”
“Then let’s do that.”
Chapter 15: Chloe
I can’t believe this place.
Hudson and I dance close together, swaying to a slow jazz number. The bottom of my heavy dress brushes against my legs. The light scent of liquor and perfume drifts across the room. I love everything about it.
I’m glad I wore my grandmother’s gown. The other women appraise me and nod approvingly. This is definitely no place for costume-shop dresses. All of theirs appear to be either authentic or custom-made.
Many wear traditional flapper dresses with a long fringe. Others have long beaded gowns. Everything is detailed precisely. Stockings. Shoes. Many of them have accessories I didn’t think of, little headpieces with feathers and beads. Some have fascinators clipped in their hair. Dang. Next time.
If there is a next time.
I hope there is a next time.
Hudson dances close to me, his hand on my back. His suit is crisp but soft, and it fits him perfectly. The soft brown matches his eyes. He smells of expensive wool and aftershave. I’m in heaven.
We dance like a dream. The steps are simple, but we flow together like one person. The music swirls around us. It’s a moment I would like to stretch out forever.
The song comes to an end, and the audience claps appreciatively. The drummer taps a count into something a lot faster and jazzier, so I pull away from Hudson. “I could use that drink.”
He leads me to the bar. “They only serve drinks that existed in this time frame. You’re not going to find any Fireball shots or Sex on the Beach.”
I laugh. “I wouldn’t dare ask for anything out of sync with this place.”
“So what would you like?”
“What do you suggest?” I really don’t know what to order and I don’t want to mess up, since they can kick you out for doing the wrong thing.
“You look like a French 75 sort of girl.”
“What is it?”
“Gin, champagne, and lemon juice.”
“That sounds perfect.”
Hudson leans in and tells the bartender our order. I look out over the room. A few more people have entered the dance floor. Everyone moves to steps I’ve seen in movies. Is it the Charleston?
I love my vintage hair and makeup and dress, but I’m pretty rusty on the other elements of 1920s society. Probably I’m not supposed to be standing at the bar in this era. But other women are. Perhaps even in the twenties, when you’re in a speakeasy, women assert their right to act as they please.
I wonder what sort of woman I would have been then. Up until I started working at Action for Action, I might have been the girl who did what my husband told me. After all, I had spent almost a year moping over Chad.
From where I stand, I don’t even recognize that person. Although she does still have a shrine in her drawer to that crappy man.
I should take care of that immediately. I don’t need the dusty old reminders of the weak girl I once was. Chad is like a distant bad memory.
Hudson turns to me with the drinks. We clink our glasses together.
“To an amazing night,” he says.
“It already is,” I say and take a sip.
The drink is divine. Exactly right for how I’m dressed and how I feel.
We drift closer to the dance floor to watch.
“I don’t know how to do that,” I say.
“If you want to take lessons, we can learn and come again,” he says. “I only know a few things. I had to learn them for the party I attended here before.”
“I can see why someone would love to have a wedding here. But it must be outrageous.”
“I can’t imagine,” Hudson says. “It’s pretty hard to get here even for a night.”
“Is this how you always live? Exclusive bars and custom clothes?” I ask. The excess around us doesn’t really seem to fit him. Although, now that I’ve seen him in his car and here, in the custom suit, I wonder if I’m wrong.
“Not really,” he says. “My mom cleans houses for a living in Hawaii. But my sister married into this family. They have everything. So while this isn’t exactly me, I guess it’s what’s around me.”
I take a sip of my drink. When I first met Hudson, I figured he was the perfect package, sweet on the inside, but strong and fierce on the outside. I feel the same way now, only about how amazing it is to find someone who knows what it’s like to grow up with nothing, yet now has anything he could want. What a way to live. It’s how you can use your power for good.
Except…he doesn’t. He fights.
I push that thought away.
We watch the dancers out on the floor. After a few minutes, I realize that a lot of them don’t seem to know what they’re doing. They’re following along the ones that do, and faking it.
I lean in close to Hudson. “I think I could do the dance about as well as most of them.”
“I have a feeling you might actually be better. Even without lessons.”
I laugh. “It’s not a high bar.”
He takes my drink and sets both of them on a nearby table. He extends his hand. “Shall we try it?”
“Definitely.”
We head out to the dance floor. Soon we’re in the midst of everyone, waving arms and kicking our ankles like the rest of them.
And by God, it’s fun. We dance until my legs ache and laugh until my throat is hoarse.
We settle at a table with two other couples, and they convince me to try several other drinks. A Gin Rickey. Manhattan. Tuxedo #2. The room doesn’t quite spin, but I definitely feel the flush of alcohol. I want to giggle every time I watch Hudson pay
for them with small coins. This place is crazy.
The cigarette girl comes by with her box filled with small packages of vintage smoking accessories and fresh flowers. Hudson buys me a red rose for a nickel. I lift it to my nose.
I might be the happiest I’ve ever been, and certainly the happiest since this terrible year began.
One of the women fingers the sleeve of my dress. “Whatever designer did you use to replicate this dress so precisely?” she asks.
“It’s authentic. My great-grandmother was quite a party girl,” I say. “This is one of the dresses that was handed down from her wild years.”
“True vintage,” the woman breathes. “These are a rare find. Mine is only a copy.” She leans back to show off her sleeveless ivory top with its diagonal piping. I recognize it as an imitation of one of the outfits from The Great Gatsby.
“It’s very beautiful,” I say. “I have a lot of replicas from other eras. I’m very lucky to have this one real dress.”
“It’s in perfect condition,” she says.
The other woman at our table leans in. “It’s the hair and makeup that really make it,” she says. “Are you willing to give away the name of your stylist? She’s brilliant at pairing a dress with a look.”
I will keep that secret close to my chest. “I have been sworn to secrecy,” I say. To myself, I think with an internal giggle.
“Of course,” the woman murmurs. “Everyone has such a terribly competitive client list.”
The conversation moves on. I glance at Hudson happily. Another slow number begins, and he stands. “May I have this dance?”
I take his hand, and I swear I float as we walk to the dance floor. The song is melancholy and full of longing, as if the saxophone is telling the story of a love that can never be.
Hudson pulls me in close, and our bodies press together. With every step, I feel the muscles of his thighs, and his belly, and the strength of his arm beneath my hand.
I try to tell myself that this is simply one magical night. That we’ve accomplished something so memorable because of this amazing place, and our clothes, and the fascinating people around us. This feeling isn’t something that can survive the light of day. Certainly not under the scrutiny of both sides of this battle. Lines have been drawn.
