Chloe

by Lyn Cote

  “You should be flattered,” he murmured.

  “By what?” She watched the city lights flicker by.

  “By being invited to the Republican charity ball, of course.”

  She laughed on cue. “You know you arranged it. The invitation to me was to please you.”

  “A man has to protect himself from an evening without at least one good dance partner.” He flicked his fingers through the hair over her ear, teasing her.

  She shook her head and laughed again, though she felt no real amusement. Drake had connections. Any man who gave as much as he did to the Republican Party would. She pushed politics away as she enjoyed the feeling of being swept away from duty in such a dashing car. She didn’t ask where they were going. She knew. Within minutes, Drake knocked at a discreet dark-green garden apartment door. A panel slid open.

  “Hot mama,” Drake muttered the password.

  “That’s Jake.” The panel shut and the door opened.

  Chloe passed through first with Drake at her heels. Raucous laughter filled her ears. Tony’s speakeasy was the most popular in D.C. and catered to the Washington elite. Sauntering languidly, very aware of the way Drake and she looked together, Chloe nodded at someone at almost every table.

  “Mostly Democrats here tonight,” Drake pointed out.

  “The few of us that are left,” Chloe quipped. Harding-Coolidge prosperity had lured most Americans to the rival party. Hoover had won easily over Al Smith.

  Drake seated her at the small table they’d been led to and signaled to the waiter. “A whiskey and soda for me and club soda with a twist of lime for the lady.” The formally attired waiter nodded and went off to the bar.

  “When are you going to drop being Carry Nation’s daughter?” Drake shot his cuffs and leaned his elbows on the crisp, white-clothed table. Tony’s tried and succeeded in appearing to be a successful dinner club.

  “I stopped carrying my hatchet, didn’t you notice? It clashed with my gown.” Chloe hadn’t picked up the cocktail habit that had risen with Prohibition. Somehow Bette and the Eighteenth Amendment had stopped her mother from drinking. But her mother’s former overindulgence with alcohol made Chloe wary. Then, too, just because this was a speakeasy that catered to a high-class clientele didn’t mean the liquor could be trusted one hundred percent. She knew of two men who’d gone blind from wood alcohol, colored to look like Scotch, at another exclusive D.C. speakeasy.

  Their drinks arrived. Chloe was stirring her swizzle stick in the bubbling soda when a woman in a very short, very tight, fringed red dress with many strings of beads bouncing around her low neckline stumbled over to their table. “Drake, honey. You didn’t call me.” The woman slid onto Drake’s lap with a high giggle.

  He smiled, but Chloe noted chagrin in his narrowed eyes. “I think you’ve had a few too many, Marvel.”

  The woman gurgled. “Haven’t we all? Except for the chaste and dry Miss Chloe.”

  Chloe couldn’t stop herself from speaking in frosty disdain. “Have we been introduced?”

  Marvel shrilled with laughter. “No, but everyone knows you or about you! Your father’s Quentin Kimball and your mother’s a Carlyle of Maryland. You don’t drink. You don’t smoke. And you don’t—”

  “That’s enough,” Drake snapped. He stood up, dragging Marvel up with him; her red fringe splaying across the white front of his shirt. “You’re becoming a dead bore.” He marched the woman back to the disgruntled-looking escort she’d abandoned.

  Marvel tried to resist Drake, but couldn’t. Still, she glared back toward Chloe. “She’s a case of neurotic inhibition all right,” Marvel squealed. “Freud would have a heyday with her.” She laughed shrilly, drawing even more attention to them.

  Drake’s face turned brick red and his mouth twisted downward. For a moment, Chloe feared he would slap the woman. “You’re making a scene, Marvel,” he said in a tight voice, “and I hate scenes. Now be a good girl and sit down.”

  “Hey,” the other man objected, “Marvel can do better than hang around with you, and she’s got a right to say what she thinks. I ought to darken your headlights, bud.”

  Tony, the small, olive-skinned proprietor, appeared at Drake’s elbow. “Is there a problem?” Tony’s ex-boxer bouncer, looking like an ape in his formal attire, lurked in the background.

  “No, I think these two were just leaving.” Drake looked pointedly at Marvel’s date.

  The stranger took the hint, but without grace. Grumbling, he grabbed Marvel’s arm and stomped out the door.

  Drake returned to Chloe. “I apologize for that.” He sat down across from her again. “Marvel doesn’t carry her liquor well.”

  Chloe felt embarrassed for and scornful of Marvel at the same time. The woman should have known Drake wouldn’t tolerate such a déclassé scene. But then Drake was still somewhat a mystery to her as well.

  “Why do you stick with me, Drake?” Chloe couldn’t stop the question from slipping out. It had been going around in her mind for years now. Ever since they’d met at Henderson’s Castle in 1919, Drake had hovered at her side. The one time three years ago when he’d asked her to go away with him for a weekend, she’d declined. She’d expected him to drop her then, but he hadn’t. “Why, Drake? Please tell me.”

  “Haven’t you guessed . . . yet?” He sipped his cocktail.

  So he had an agenda for her. What? “Tell me.”

  He stared at her and without his usual savoir faire. “I intend to marry you.”

  Of all the replies he could have given, she’d never expected this one. Shock shimmered through her, but she replied without hesitation, “I’m never going to marry again.”

  “Especially a Republican?” he asked with a rueful grin, obviously not taking her at her word. Drake’s suave mask had snapped back into place.

  He couldn’t have spoken in earnest. His arch comment hurt her. “You’re not being serious.” I never thought you’d make fun of me, Drake.

  “Oh, but I am completely serious. I decided to marry you years ago.”

  She knew from gossip that Drake usually acted the rake. So why did he always play the gentleman with her? She decided to take a chance, ask for the truth. “Did you decide that when I refused to go away with you to Martha’s Vineyard?”

  “Before that. I didn’t expect you to accept my invitation.” He swirled the amber liquid in his short glass.

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “Just to make sure I was right,” he said lightly. But then he took her hand and his expression became serious. “I need a wife I can trust. A wife who will give me an heir that I can be sure is really mine. A wife who will make me the envy of other men.”

  “You don’t want much, do you?” She made her voice light and teasing, but her heart throbbed in her ears. She’d hoped Drake was her one friend. Not once in their years together had she ever felt any other attachment to him. How do I get out of this? She drew her hand from his.

  “I’m making you nervous, aren’t I?” he asked with a repentant smile.

  She looked away. The Negro jazz trio that played each evening was gathering in the corner. “Me?” She shook her head and smiled falsely. “I don’t have a nerve in my body.”

  “‘Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies,’” Drake said.

  Chloe couldn’t decide if he were mocking her or himself. She sipped her cold club soda. The trio began playing, “The Man I Love.” Setting down his drink, Drake offered her his hand. She rose and he led her to the small dance floor. She let him draw her close and move her effortlessly around to the music of the fox trot. His embrace wasn’t seductive or suggestive. He never tried to kiss her while they danced. He just seemed to enjoy dancing with her. Drake Lovelady had become such an integral part of her life that Chloe had ceased to wonder why he was there. Could he really want to marry her? Did his reasons make any sense?

  The song ended and they sat down. The police commissioner waved to them from the next table and several Democ
ratic congressmen nodded from farther on. She saw their speculative glances and wondered how many people watching them here tonight expected her to marry Drake. I’ll never marry again. She was absolutely sure of this, but didn’t know why.

  Just then her father and a pretty young redhead in a flashy green dress entered the speakeasy. He settled the woman at a table distant from them. Chloe knew why he did this. He didn’t want to introduce her to one of his many women.

  Then he came over to shake hands with Drake and pinch her cheek. “Chloe, tomorrow mornin’ you talk to Jackson. He’s set up somethin’ for you to do in the afternoon. It’s a public relations outin’ featuring the wives of Democratic congressmen. I want you to go along and get into any photos the press take. They always put you front and center ’cause you’re the prettiest Democrat in town.” He chuckled.

  Chloe nodded, keeping her eyes from shifting toward her father’s date, who looked much younger than Chloe. Once again she tried to put her father’s philandering out of her mind. Why should she mind? Her mother evidently didn’t.

  He turned to go. “Oh, I just heard from your mother.”

  Chloe looked up, foolish hope zinging to life. “Yes?”

  “She called tonight to tell you Bette just got over the measles.”

  “Measles?” Foolish hope died instantly—to be told news about her daughter secondhand by her father! Hot shame flooded Chloe.

  “Your mother said she didn’t want to worry you,” he explained, “so she waited till the crisis passed.”

  Chloe nodded woodenly. She’d seen her daughter a month ago at her child’s eleventh birthday party. Bette had stuck close to her grandmother and stared at the ground every time Chloe addressed her. The worst of it was that it reminded Chloe of the way she’d behaved as a child around her absent mother. She’d been raised by her grandmother and Minnie’s. Mrs. McCaslin long ago had called it the Carlyle tradition. But it was more like a curse. Would every generation see trouble between mother and daughter? Would there never be peace?

  Her father went back to his date. Drake asked Chloe to dance again and she rose with a smile. She could lose herself in music and laughter, couldn’t she?

  “Don’t be sad,” Drake murmured. “We’re doing the best we can. Even Solomon said it: ‘Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die.’”

  Chloe chuckled, as she was supposed to. “Why not?”

  About one in the morning, Drake drove Chloe home. She’d begged off from going to another speakeasy that included a casino. She couldn’t bear another dose of fun tonight.

  Drake handed back her key after he’d unlocked the front door and then drew her gloved hand to his lips. “Good night, princess.”

  She didn’t like his nickname for her, but she merely nodded and walked inside. She shut the door and locked it. Drake’s unexpected proposal had destroyed her peace. Was she frightened at the thought of marrying again or of the idea that she might marry Drake not from any feeling of love but rather because he’d finally worn down her resolve?

  The phone in the hallway rang. The sound sent waves of fear through Chloe. Who would be calling at this hour? Had Bette had a relapse or complications with measles? Chloe jerked the phone to her ear. “Yes?”

  “Chloe, is that you?”

  Roarke McCaslin’s voice rushed over the phone line to her, clear and unmistakable. The unlooked for voice set off a gale of sensations and weakened her knees. She leaned against the wall. “Roarke?”

  “It’s Kitty. Chloe, she’s in critical condition.”

  “What’s wrong?” Chloe had trouble drawing breath.

  “Bad booze. The doctors don’t know what . . . what the outcome will be. She told me not to call our parents, but she wants you, Chloe. She told me to call you.”

  “Where are you?” Chloe’s hands shook as she pulled the note pad and pen to her on the hall table.

  “A private hospital in upper Manhattan.” He gave her the name and address.

  “I’ll leave right away.”

  “I don’t know what you can do for her.”

  “I can be there.” She hung up. For a moment, she held her face in her hands. This couldn’t be happening, not to Kitty. Kitty had continued her law career in New York City. Chloe had lunched with her whenever she shopped on Fifth Avenue. But their lives had become so different and Kitty had seemed progressively . . . unhappy, dissatisfied under her almost frantic gaiety. Every meeting had depressed Chloe. Now this.

  In the end, Chloe had her chauffeur drive her to New York. It took the rest of the dark hours and into the next day. He delivered her to the hospital in mid-morning. Once there she sent him away to reserve a room for her at the new Benjamin Hotel and told him to drive home after doing that. She’d use public transport in the city. He tried to remonstrate that her father wouldn’t like that, but she ignored him and went through the entrance. The hospital was small and smelled, as all hospitals did, of formaldehyde and Lysol and other odors Chloe couldn’t distinguish and didn’t want to. With the help of an aide, she found Kitty’s room . . . and Roarke. He sat in a chair by the bed. His face looked flattened, as if all hope had been lost.

  Fear like a specter rose in her. Was Kitty going to die? Roarke’s name was all Chloe could say. At the sound he stood up and stared at her. The sight of him gazing at her coursed through her like warmed wine. She couldn’t move, could barely breathe. Over five years had passed since she’d seen Roarke’s face. Chloe quashed the urge to throw her arms around him. His expression was easy to read. He doesn’t want me here. Don’t embarrass him or myself.

  “Chloe,” he murmured.

  To escape his relentless gaze, she looked to the bed. Kitty lay very still, her eyes shut. Her skin was sallow and her face looked puffy, unnatural. “How is she?”

  Roarke visibly pulled himself together. “Not good. The doctors think she got some wood alcohol in a cocktail someplace. They think it’s damaged her liver. That’s why her skin’s turned yellow and she’s holding fluid.”

  This can’t be happening. “What are they doing for her?” Tears crowded her throat. She pushed them down.

  “There’s not too much they can do.” Each stark word obviously cost him. Roarke slumped back into his chair and lowered his head into his hands. He looked like he wanted to lie down and die.

  She resisted the urge to kneel beside him and smooth back his tousled hair.

  “They’re giving her a diuretic, trying to get the bloating and toxins out of her system and they’ve catheterized her to move this along.”

  Chloe approached the bed and took Kitty’s flaccid hand. “Is she . . . asleep?” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word coma.

  “She’s weak. She comes and goes.”

  Kitty’s eyes fluttered open. Her mouth tried to form a word. Chloe reached for the bedside table where a metal pitcher of water and a glass with a straw stood ready. She poured a small amount of water. Before she could do it herself, Roarke was up opposite her, lifting Kitty’s head. Chloe slid one hand into Kitty’s hair. Her hand brushed Roarke’s. Sparks darted through her hand and up her arm. She concentrated on the task at hand. She gently nudged Kitty’s lips with the straw. “Take a sip, Kitty. Then you’ll be able to talk.”

  Kitty obeyed and drank one, two shallow swallows. Then she leaned back against Roarke’s arm, looking up into Chloe’s eyes. “You came.”

  Chloe clutched the glass with both hands then. “As soon as I could get here.”

  “Glad.” Kitty looked as if saying those few words exhausted her. Roarke lowered his sister’s head. She rolled it against the pillow, restless, pained. “Roarke here . . . alone.”

  “I’m here now.” Before she dropped it, Chloe put the glass down on the bedside table. “I won’t leave until you’re well enough to go home.”

  “Might not go home. So weak.” Kitty shut her eyes.

  Chloe felt electric shocks flash through her. Kitty, you can’t die. You can’t leave me . . . us.

  Roa
rke and Chloe’s eyes met and held. “Chloe, I . . .” He faltered and turned. Chloe looked away.

  A slim, young doctor followed by an older, stout nurse walked into the room. “I’m just making rounds. Has she been conscious at all?”

  Roarke turned to him. “She just spoke a moment ago.”

  “Good. Her heart’s strong. That’s a plus. But her liver has suffered damage. The good thing about livers however is that they can right themselves if given time.”

  “How long . . . When will we know?” Chloe ventured.

  “I honestly don’t know, madam. She’s young and strong and that may be enough to counteract the damage done to her liver. But we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Chloe wanted to shake a better answer out of him. But she refrained from asking anything more. This wasn’t his fault. The doctor and nurse left them, already discussing the next patient. “How long have you been here?” Chloe glanced at Roarke and then away.

  “All night.”

  “Do you want to go home for a while? Take a shower, eat breakfast?” They both kept looking at Kitty. Were they fearful of what their eyes might find or reveal if they dared look at each other?

  “No, I can’t leave.”

  She didn’t press him. But they weren’t speaking like people who had been parted for years. Unlike that night at the theater, their time apart now melted away as a vapor. Did Roarke even remember abandoning her to Drake that night in Harlem? Probably it had meant nothing to him. After that, he’d never called and she’d never had the nerve to call him. “I can’t leave either.”

  He stretched his arms over his head. “But a cup of coffee might help. Will you stay with her while I get one and call my office? I’ll try to bring you back one, too.”

  “Sure. That would be good.”

  Roarke left, promising to return soon.

  Within minutes, Minnie walked into Kitty’s hospital room. Feeling as if she were in a dream, Chloe stood. Minnie hugged her tightly. “Chloe, you look prettier than ever,” she murmured, appearing loathe to look at Kitty.