“Can I talk to you?” Ruth asked June tersely.
“Yeah … of course.” June looked at Birdie and squeezed her hand. “I’ll be right back,” she said earnestly, then trailed Ruth as she stalked toward a back corner.
Birdie tried not to watch them go. She looked around, blinking, trying to shake off the fog. It was like she and June had been in a quiet room alone together and then suddenly a whole crowd had rushed in around them and wrenched them apart. The music was too loud, the air thick and humid.
She watched June climb into a booth with Ruth. June took Ruth’s hand right away, and Birdie’s stomach went hot as she remembered them kissing. The urgency between them.
She could see the same urgency flare between them right now.
Birdie looked away, anxious energy rising inside her. She’d danced with girls before, she and Izzy used to dance with each other all the time. She’d kissed Izzy and it hadn’t meant anything. It didn’t have to mean anything now.
Birdie had liked kissing David. She’d liked holding the hands of the beaux she’d had before that. June was the one who kissed girls. June was the strange, boyish one—not her.
Hazel and Oscar were slow dancing nearby. Birdie ground her teeth as she watched Oscar’s cheek press against Hazel’s. Why couldn’t that be her? Why couldn’t she be dancing with the handsome boy, feeling him against her cheek like that? Those blue eyes; that easy, bright smile; those broad, tan hands.
Why couldn’t it be Oscar that made her head go light?
Oscar reach into his pocket. He pulled something out as he talked into Hazel’s ear. Hazel’s head was bent so that she couldn’t see what was in Oscar’s hand, but Birdie could.
It was a ring.
CHAPTER TWENTY
BIRDIE WATCHED AS HAZEL PULLED BACK, SURPRISE ON HER FACE, AS Oscar knelt. “Hazel Riona O’Malley—” he began earnestly.
Birdie turned toward the bar, bile rising in her throat, and suddenly the room was spinning. She stumbled and reached her hand out—
“Whoa there.” The man’s voice sounded far off. She felt an arm around her, then she was being settled onto a barstool. Birdie pushed him away and leaned her elbows on the bar, head in her hands.
“Hey, doll,” he said. “You need some air. Let me help you outside for a minute, some fresh air will—”
“I just need a minute,” Birdie said shakily. “I don’t need your help.” She stared down, trying to slow her breath, and after a moment her vision steadied. Birdie straightened and pushed limp hair off her forehead. She was fine. She was tipsy and light-headed and had let herself become momentarily disoriented, but it was nothing a glass of water wouldn’t fix.
“Can I buy you a drink, sweetheart?”
She glanced at the man and remembered him raising his glass when June had put her hand on Birdie’s waist and pulled her close to waltz, their fingers tangling—she would not look over at the booth where June and Ruth sat together. She didn’t much feel like talking with this fellow, either, but her throat was terribly dry. She leaned over the bar. “Hey!” She waved a hand at the bartender.
The bartender glanced up from the orange in his hand, then looked back down. He carefully peeled off a sliver of rind and set it on the rim of a full tumbler.
“Nice moves you had out there,” said the man.
The bartender leaned over and set the drink on the bar, nodding to acknowledge another man’s order. “Excuse me!” Birdie called, and was ignored.
“Let me buy you a drink,” said the man.
Birdie took another look at him. Somewhere in his late thirties, she guessed. Not so bad looking. His face was red from alcohol and his hairline was a bit thin, but he was in good shape, blond hair neatly combed. He looked like money—gold cuff links, loosened silk tie and all. He looked one of Dad’s friends.
Dad could be sitting at a bar just like this, somewhere close by.
“Fine.” She settled back in her barstool.
“Frankie!” The man hailed the bartender, who looked up from the big, square ice cube he was setting in a tumbler. “Can I get a gin and soda for the lady?”
“And a water!” Birdie added. “See-voo-play.”
The bartender nodded. Maybe you had to address him by name to get him to acknowledge you. Or be wearing a suit.
“You from around here?” she asked the man, smiling pertly.
“Nope, in from Hollywood for a few weeks.”
Shoot. “You know of Gilda Deveaux?” she asked anyway.
“I know that name.” The man leaned an elbow on the bar. “But I’d rather know yours.”
Birdie smiled and forced herself to lean in as well. “You know where she sings in town?” She trailed a finger along the bar.
“Saw her myself just last night at The Midnight,” said the man, and Birdie’s pulse quickened. The bartender set a fizzy drink at her elbow. No glass of water. Birdie would have sworn at him if she wasn’t so focused.
“Now that was a hot show,” the man continued. “What I remember of it, anyway! One thing’s for sure, they know how to pour a drink over at the Midnight.”
“I want to see her,” said Birdie. “Gilda Deveaux. I hear she’s the berries.” She picked up the drink and put it to her lips, holding his eyes as she drained the glass. She set it carefully back on the bar. “I’d go right now, if someone would take me.”
“Would you now.” The man appraised her, and she couldn’t guess what he must make of her—fine silk dress, scraped-up knees, dirt under her fingernails. “I’ll take you over to The Midnight, if you like. It’s Friday night, and she’s their regular act on the weekends.”
“Oh, would you?” Birdie’s heart started pounding. “Why, that’d be just ducky.”
“You gotta tell me your name first,” the man said. “I’m Sinclair.”
Birdie heard Bennie exclaim behind her, and Oscar’s voice raised jovially, but she refused to look. Hazel was probably holding out her hand so that Bennie could see the ring, and Merriwether was crowding in to see it. Colette and Milosh were standing up in their booth to see what all the fuss was about. June probably wasn’t even noticing, lost in a dark booth with Ruth.
“Nice to meet you, Sinclair. I’m Birdie.” She pushed the glass away and put a hand on his starched elbow. “Let’s go, shall we?”
Birdie ducked her head and clung to Sinclair’s arm until they’d exited the club, half hoping no one would notice her leaving—and half hoping someone would. But no one came out as they waited, shivering in the quickly cooling air, for the driver to bring Sinclair’s limo around, and she was glad she had this chance to track Gilda down.
It was a very nice limousine, the glow of the gas lamps reflecting off its glossy surface. “This is so swank!” Birdie exclaimed as the driver opened the door. She climbed to the far side, and Sinclair followed her in. Its leather smell made her miss Dad’s Duesenberg. It made her miss nice cars in general. And drivers to take you places, and dancing, and flirting, and going on dates—all the things she’d been too busy to miss since she’d joined the circus. Sinclair himself might not have been ideal, but it was nice to get a taste of her old life.
“This is fun, huh? I’m glad we’re doing this,” Sinclair said, and she rewarded him with a bright smile, her sweaty calves sticking to the leather. But as he settled in next to her and the driver revved the engine, a knife-edge of nerves sliced her stomach.
Dad had bought the Duesenberg before her first school dance, and he’d wanted to drive her there himself. It was a magnificent car, sleek and black with big whitewall tires and a convertible top. She was fourteen, wearing lipstick for the first time, and so tickled about the whole thing. Dad looked at her strangely as she got into the car. “You be careful, all right? You don’t just hop into anybody’s car looking so pretty.”
“Ugh, Dad!” Back then, everything always went the way she wanted it to. She couldn’t fathom a situation where she would feel helpless.
“I mean it,” he’d said. “Not every fellow i
s the gentleman your old man is, you hear?”
Gentleman. Some gentleman he’d turned out to be.
She felt safe enough with the driver there, and Sinclair seemed relatively harmless, even if he was a bit hoary-eyed. He hadn’t tried to touch her. He’d said he was in from Hollywood, which was intriguing. “What do you do in Hollywood?” she asked.
He smiled slowly, as if he was considering whether or not to tell her. “I’m a filmmaker,” he finally said.
Sinclair. The name sounded familiar … she did a double take. “You’re—you’re not Sinclair Stevens?” Aviator, inventor—he wasn’t just a filmmaker, he was a celebrity.
He shrugged, obviously pleased with her reaction. “Having a bit of low-key fun while I’m in town for the week. Nobody knows I’m here yet.”
Birdie thought she’d feel more awed when she met a famous person. “What are you doing in Chicago?” she asked, as if she were talking to any old person, instead of Sinclair Stevens! The cocktails must be making her bold.
“Working on my next movie. Got one coming out in November, but Dawn Patrol is out right before it, and with everything the way it is—looks like the competition might be rough.” His face darkened. “Gotta hit the ground running,” he mumbled, almost to himself. “Another war flick, but with more action and romance than ever before! Dogfights, stunt-flying, that sort of thing—”
“You’re filming it here?”
His face cleared as he registered the question. “No, I’m here to meet with some investors a week from Monday. You need a lot of money to make that kind of movie.”
Sinclair Steven’s movies were the sort that hired pilots like Hazel and Oscar. They would just die if they knew where she was right now! “Are you going to have stunt pilots?”
“Of course, but I can’t worry about that now. Investors first, actors second, then we’ll start scouting for stunt pilots.” He tapped his fingers on the windowsill, looking pensive again.
“Did you ever hire a woman pilot to do stunts?” The limo slowed, pulling up to the curb.
“Nope.” He raised his eyebrows. “That’s not a bad thought. It would definitely make a buzz! If she was pretty enough, that might be something, even if we’d have to keep the stunts simple.”
He must imagine lady pilots as powder puffs. “Not if they were like my friends. They fly better than anyone else—”
“Here we are,” Sinclair interrupted as the driver opened his door. Birdie was annoyed that he cut her off, but almost instantly her stomach turned. Here they were, at The Midnight, where Gilda Deveaux was sure to be. Where Dad might be.
Sinclair came around and helped her out, his palm moist against hers. She took his arm flirtatiously—“It’s awful nice of you to take a girl out to such a fancy-lookin’ place”—affecting her best Zelda Fitzgerald for the occasion and shooing away his ensuing compliments.
The Midnight Ballroom was an imposing old building with broad columns and bright red doors. The ceilings were high and the patrons white. The five-piece band was hitting all sixes on stage, and standing behind the long, silver stem of a microphone, her lips to the bud on top—
“Gilda Deveaux,” Birdie breathed.
She shone, the grail Birdie had been seeking. Her chestnut curls were sculpted into a carefree wave, a few wisps falling over her forehead, long strands of pearls swinging to her waist, one strap of her dress slipping off a shoulder. She was as seductive as Birdie remembered, her voice as sweet and throaty, but there was something else about her that Birdie understood now. It wasn’t the beauty of her voice or body that made her so compelling. It was like Gilda had all the intensity Birdie felt inside her building up, only Gilda was somehow able to fill her lungs with those feelings and pour them out into the microphone so they resonated deep in Birdie’s guts. The aching, the sadness, the longing. Who couldn’t help falling in love with her?
“She’s something else, isn’t she?” Sinclair’s hand on her lower back guided her toward the dance floor. “How about those moves I saw over at the Hot Toddy? I want to see more of that!”
June pulling her close, hand on her waist—Birdie’s skin warmed. She turned away from Sinclair, not wanting him to think she blushed for him. “Of course,” she said. Her tone was flat and didn’t come out as coyly as she’d wanted, but he didn’t seem to notice.
The dance floor was just below the stage, and the band was playing a hot number. The words of the song, “I’m in the Market for You,” were simple, but Gilda’s sultry rendition hinted at unspoken meanings. It wasn’t as crowded as it had been at the last bar, but there were plenty of people dancing in expensive suits and fashionable dresses, limbs loose and careless, cheeks flushed and lips parted. There was a current in the air.
Sinclair wasn’t much for dancing. He stood at the edge of the floor, sucking down a drink as he watched Birdie hungrily, motioning for her to go on when she paused. He didn’t touch her, but the way he stared was uncomfortable—especially after he’d finished his double. Birdie put more distance between them, inching closer to the stage, and fixed her eyes on Gilda.
Gilda’s red-nailed fingers trailed on the microphone, her eyes making deep contact with some unknown you in the back of the room. Birdie turned her head, her heart in her throat—what if Dad was standing there, bourbon in his glass, staring back?—but no one was there. Gilda was staring at the wall like it was the only thing in her life that she’d ever cared about.
Birdie could see how someone might see that look, and want it for themselves.
In what seemed like no time at all, the set ended with a great crescendo of sound crashing beneath the highest, longest, loudest note that Gilda had sang all night. The crowd clapped and whistled and stomped, but the clock read three a.m. and Gilda and the band ignored their request for just one more.
Everyone hung off each other’s necks and complained about having to leave. Gilda, a delicate sheen on her brow, turned to laugh with the bassist. Birdie felt Sinclair’s arm snake around her waist. “Whaddya wanna do now, sugar?” His sour breath was hot on her neck. He’d definitely gone downhill since they’d left the Hot Toddy.
“I want to talk to her.” Birdie nodded at the stage. Her heart was in her throat, her head light.
“Sure, doll.” He patted her hip. “Go chat her up, then we’ll go. I’ll wait at the bar, sugar.”
A few gentlemen fans were standing around the base of the stage as Birdie approached, hands in their pockets or holding cigars. Gilda crouched down to listen to one speak, her knees neatly together in her tight skirt, then laughed and answered in a throaty murmur before she stood again. Birdie pushed her hair back and tugged on the hem of her own dress. She was sweaty and rumpled, and Gilda would have no idea who she was. She probably wouldn’t believe Birdie when she told her.
Birdie squared her shoulders and put on her smile. “Gilda Deveaux?” she said, raising her voice.
The men turned. They smiled when they saw her, so maybe she didn’t look so terrible.
Gilda squinted into the stage lights. A jolt of recognition flickered across Gilda’s face, her pleasant expression hardening.
“Jimmy?” said Gilda, putting a hand on the bassist’s sleeve. “Does that look like Bobby Williams’s girl to you?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“I’M BIRDIE WILLIAMS.” BIRDIE WAS UNNERVED BY GILDA’S QUICK ASSESSMENT and cold tone. “Do you have a moment?”
Gilda looked around the room lingeringly, a frown creasing her forehead. When her gaze came back to Birdie, she put a hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side. “Make it quick.” Her voice had lost the hint of exotic accent, her face the softness of her stage persona; she looked stern and uncaring.
“You sure, Miss Deveaux?” The bassist squinted at Birdie. “I can escort her out if you like.”
“It’s okay, Jimmy,” said Gilda. “I can handle this.”
His eyes searched the room like Gilda’s before he turned away.
“You must know why I’m
here.” Birdie meant to sound accusing as she said it, but instead a rush of sadness crawled up her throat and made her gasp.
She would not cry. She wouldn’t.
Gilda pressed her lips together. “I think I might have some idea.”
Birdie hugged her arms around herself. “He’s here, then?” Her voice came out hopeful and high, and she wished she’d never come here. “Forget it,” she gasped. “I thought maybe you could tell me where he is, but it’s fine, I just—”
Gilda’s brows raised. “Oh Lord, you came to me looking for him?” Her eyes softened. “And here I thought you were gonna dress me down like your momma did on the phone.” She looked over her shoulder. “You hang on, let me give the boys a hand breaking down. Be right back.”
Birdie watched her walk away, startled out of her sadness. Mom had phoned Gilda? The revelation simmered in Birdie’s mind, heating her up. Mom had known all along where Dad might have gone and she had told Birdie nothing?
Gilda helped move a few things off the stage but the men waved her away after a moment, and Gilda stepped down and sat on the edge of the stage and patted the spot next to her. Birdie was seething already and she’d only learned one thing—but she forced herself to sit down next to her. Her stomach was aching, and her head was light.
“You poor thing,” said Gilda, patting her knee. “Out so late. You hungry? Thirsty?”
Birdie shook her head, unnerved that Gilda was treating her like a child. She’d gone from seductive to stern to sympathetic so quickly. “I just—I was hoping you could tell me where my dad is.”
Someone handed Gilda a cloudy martini and she thanked them, took a sip, and swirled the toothpicked olive around a few times. “Well, he’s not here now, if that’s all you were after.”
Birdie had gathered that. “But he was?”
Gilda laughed shortly. “Sure was. He’d never come to see me in Chicago before, but it’s not too hard to track me down. Said he couldn’t stop thinking about me. That he was divorcing your mother, and that he wanted me to break off my engagement and marry him instead. Of course I wasn’t touching that, but I was flattered.” She paused to take another sip, and cleared her throat. “Took me a minute to track down the newspapers from your town. The bank failure? He didn’t tell me about that. What did he think he was doing? Did he think I’d marry him, no questions asked?”
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