Change of Heart

by Liv Rancourt

  Change of Heart

  An Hours of the Night Story

  by

  Liv Rancourt

  LivRancourt.com

  Preacher always said New Orleans was a den of sin,

  so of course Clarabelle had to see for herself...

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Change of Heart

  © 2016 by Amy Dunn Caldwell

  Cover Art: Boundless Tales/Lust Bites Magazine

  Editor: Jax Garren

  Proofreader: Kate Richards

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This work previously appeared in the NOLA Naughty Nine anthology, and has not changed substantially since.

  ISBN-10: 0-9985822-0-4

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9985822-0-7

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Change of Heart

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Bio

  Teasers

  A body reaps what they sow, and Clarabelle’s planted the seeds of trouble. The year is 1933, and not much else is growing in the Oklahoma dirt. Clarabelle’s gone and fallen in love with her best friend, so she figures it's time to go out and see the world.

  If she’s lucky, she’ll find the kind of girl who'll kiss her back.

  Clarabelle heads for New Orleans, and that's where she meets Vaughn. Now, Vaughn's as pretty as can be, but she's hiding something. When she gets jumped by a pair of hoodlums, Clarabelle comes to her rescue and accidentally discovers her secret. She has to decide whether Vaughn is really the kind of girl for her, and though Clarabelle started out a dirt-farming Okie, Vaughn teaches her just what it means to be a lady.

  Chapter 1

  My family disproved the term poor as dirt. See, we was poor, but we had plenty of dirt. We just couldn’t get much to grow.

  But being poor didn’t drive me away from home.

  Emma Wagner did. She was my best friend all while we were growing up, right up until the day I told her I loved her. She didn’t want to hear those words from me. “Clarabelle Ryan,” she said, “girls don’t love other girls like that.”

  But I did.

  Her half-hearted laugh didn’t hurt too bad. Didn’t realize the damage I’d done till the next time I saw her. She wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t meet my eyes, and neither would her sister. I figured I had another week before the whole town had heard about my wayward nature.

  So I packed my change of clothes and begged Momma for a few dollars. She gave me some, but the year was 1933 and what little she had was dwindling. When I said goodbye, I think we both knew it might be the last time. Maybe she was grateful for one less mouth to feed, maybe she’d already heard rumors, or maybe her heart knew I wasn’t the type to marry the Thompson boy down the road.

  Home might have been a vacant corner where Oklahoma bumped into Texas, but I headed out to see what I could see. I didn’t have the money for the bus to California, and the winters in New York were too cold. But our preacher used to say New Orleans was worse than Sodom and Gomorrah, so with the application of common sense, good manners, and luck, I found my way to the place I was always meant to be.

  The French Quarter.

  One July evening, when the air hung like a hot, wet, blanket, I slipped my baby blue dress off its hanger. I had an hour to get to my job as a hat check girl at The Moonlight, one of the only respectable nightclubs in the Quarter. The blue dress’s rayon fabric was lighter than my peach crepe, and the sleeves were shorter than my gold chiffon. People had seen it before, but in the last three months they’d seen all my dresses, and I’d sweat less wearing rayon. I pulled the dress over my head, careful not to smear make-up on the fabric, and inspected the result.

  One bare bulb lit my room, and I had to angle my mirror to catch all of me. A knock on the door interrupted me fiddling with my collar. My heart skipped because I didn’t know many people who would drop on by. I cracked open the door.

  Short and swarthy, with iron grey hair and dark eyes, my neighbor stood outside my room.

  “Evening, Mrs. Noschese,” I said.

  “Auntie, Clarabelle. You can call me Auntie.”

  “Auntie.” I gave her an apologetic smile. Since moving to New Orleans, everyone but Mrs. Noschese called me Clara.

  She headed the two or three families who shared the old house where I lived. My tiny room had once been a slave’s quarters, though it seemed to me the stone floor should’ve held more sadness. I’d only ever felt happy there.

  “You working again tonight?” Her frown cut right through the evening gloom.

  I shrugged, hoping she didn’t think I meant to be rude. “I have to make money, you know?” Momma needed money to keep the farm going, I needed to eat, and, well, someday I wanted to make myself a fourth dress.

  “A nice girl like you shouldn’t be out in that place every night.” Her frown deepened and so did the line between her brows. “You’ll get into trouble.” She stuffed her hand into the pocket of her apron. “Did you have supper yet? Here.”

  She passed me a warm, paper-wrapped package tied with a string. “Thank you, Auntie. I swear I won’t do anything bad.”

  Mrs. Noschese made a sign of the cross. “You might not, but the bad people could do something to you.”

  Momma had taught me not to trust a Papist, but since I’d never seen prayer put food on the table, I was willing to leave each to his own. I thanked Mrs. Noschese again for the sandwich, and after one final admonition, she left me to finish getting ready. Leaning towards the mirror, I painted on some lipstick, my dress already sweat-stuck to the small of my back. I’d promised not to do anything wrong, but I’d never admit to Mrs. Noschese that there might be some bad things I wanted done to me.

  My room opened off the courtyard, which meant I could come and go without disturbing anybody. The humidity had almost washed the rouge off my cheeks by the time I made the fifteen minute walk from my house on Bienville Street to The Moonlight.

  “Clara!” Lorraine’s squeal greeted me on my way through the door. Her face was round and her hips were rounder, and she was the most excitable person I’d ever met. Most everything came out as a squeal or a giggle or a hoot.

  “I got here early so you wouldn’t be late for your date.” I fluffed my skirt so the rayon wouldn’t stick to my legs. To hear Lorraine talk, each date was more important than the last.

  White ruffles edged the shoulders of her polka-dotted dress, and her bright red curls were spunkier than they had any right to be. “Aw, thanks doll.” She aimed a cherry-colored kiss in the direction of my cheek. “This has your name on it, by the way.”

  She slid an envelope across the counter, plain and white, with my name in a loose scrawl. Curious.

  We worked in a small room with a wide window looking into the lobby. The window had a waist-high counter, and beside it we had one of those Dutch doors that opened in halves. A crowd came in, so I didn’t open the envelope right away. I’d have plenty of time to read it between se
lling packs of Camels and Marlboros and turning dollars into dimes. In the lounge, the house band did a pretty good Cab Calloway imitation, which set my toe to tapping. These Negroes sure knew how to play.

  “Abyssinia, kitten!” With a flutter of ruffles and a squeal or two, Lorraine made tracks. Leaving me alone with a mysterious envelope and sticky skin and the St James Infirmary Blues.

  Vaughn, one of the cocktail girls, popped off the main floor. She was tall, with auburn hair and the prettiest collarbones I’d ever seen. When I thought about doing bad things, her lovely face often came to mind.

  She’d dolled up her black uniform dress with a jade scarf pinned at her throat by a marcasite brooch, and she carried her drink tray lightly no matter how many high balls were crowded on it. “What’s that?” she asked, tipping her head in the direction of the note.

  Teasing myself, and maybe teasing her too, I rubbed the edge of the still-unopened envelope against my lips, marking it with a peony pink stripe. “Don’t know.”

  “Open it, you nut.” Vaughn barely had to breathe to make my pulse flutter.

  Maybe I should have learned a lesson from falling in love with my best friend, but I wanted to kiss her—especially when she smiled from under her bangs, her lips painted ruby red and her brows arched in perfect curves. Sometimes the way Vaughn’s gaze melted into me gave me the notion she shared my interest. I just didn’t know how to ask her.

  I flicked the flap with my fingernail. Who would be sending me something? I pinched my lips to swallow the flutter of nerves. “Someone stuck this one down good.”

  “Quick. I gotta get out on the floor.” A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth, and her hazel eyes glowed.

  I peeled the flap open and slid out a notecard. On the inside of the card, someone had drawn a lovely, very detailed picture.

  A picture of me. “Well, I’ll be.”

  “Let me see it.” Vaughn snatched up the card.

  I tried to grab it, but she held the card over my head. “No fair.” I was tall for a woman, but she had me by two or three inches. “You’re cheating.”

  With the kind of laugh that turned my insides to warm honey, she let the card flutter onto the counter. “Now don’t blow your wig.” She pivoted on her heel, shooting a sly glance over her shoulder. “But I think somebody likes you.”

  My eyes were drawn to the sketch. The artist’s affection came through as clear as the unmistakable chin-length waves I set in pincurls every night, the big blue eyes, and even the little gap between my two front teeth. “Me too,” I whispered to nobody in particular.

  The knowing giggle floating behind her made me think Vaughn might be acquainted with my secret admirer.

  Chapter 2

  By the time I woke in the morning, the day’s heat had already set up, though the river breeze kept things tolerable. I’d made enough money in tips to deserve a fancy breakfast, so I pulled on a clean cotton day dress, brushed my one hundred strokes, and covered my hair with a scarf. I blotted away the worst of my raccoon eyes, deciding last night’s make-up would have to do, and went looking for some chicory coffee.

  The French Quarter at ten am was louder and stinkier than at night. Dirtier too, or at least the sun showed all the dirt. The market and restaurants would have fish on special for Friday. Trucks rolled along the narrow streets and people crowded the sidewalk, looking to put food on the table.

  Over at my Bienville Street house, so many people fought over the kitchen that I ate out unless Mrs. Noschese brought me something special. I told myself that watching my pennies kept my waistline trim. When I wanted to indulge, I favored a café over on Ursuline, near the nuns, where the air smelled more like flowers than mud.

  Walking those few blocks gave me a chance to build an appetite and stretch my legs without too much perspiration. I found a table with a view of the street, ordered a beignet, and wondered how a girl from the Oklahoma dirt found herself in such an exotic place. Made me shake my head sometimes.

  People passed the window, busy with their daily lives. Most of them were Italian with dark hair, dark eyes, and too many clothes for the heat. A lot of colored people, too, talking to each other and keeping their eyes on the sidewalk. A kid ran by on stubby little legs, his mother scrambling to catch him. Behind them a scrawny, unwashed artist type walked with a couple of butch women.

  Vaughn came along next, surprising me so much I choked on my coffee. A wide-brimmed straw hat kept the sun off of her face, and her raspberry pink day dress should have clashed with her hair. Instead she looked radiant. Before I could think of a reason not to, I jumped out of my chair and ran to the door.

  “Good morning!” I came near to tripping her with my enthusiasm.

  She stopped, smiled, stepped close enough that I could smell the rosewater she always wore. “What’s your story, morning glory?”

  My cheeks got so hot I could have crawled right under the sidewalk. “Having a cup of coffee.” Did I dare? “Want to join me?”

  Vaughn’s upright posture softened. “Sure thing.”

  We laughed over her breakfast order, though really I could have died of embarrassment. I didn’t have on any rouge or lipstick, and my brows needed plucking. Vaughn’s make-up was perfect despite the early hour. I could talk to her fine at work, but with our knees bumping under the table, words took a holiday.

  For her part, she seemed content to watch me. I took a sip of my coffee to give myself something to do, and her eyes followed the motion of my hand. Oh for pity’s sake. We were both goofy.

  My mug hit the table with a thunk. “What are you doing here so early, anyhow?” I wasn’t sure where Vaughn lived, but a big car drove her home every night after work.

  She sipped her coffee, lips leaving a coral smear on the white porcelain. “I’m headed to the market.” She tapped the mug’s handle, her fingernails painted the same color as her lipstick. “I wanted to wander around a bit, but I’m”—color rose in her cheeks—“it’s nice to see you.”

  “Well it’s nice to see you, too.” Did I dare suggest we could wander around together? Nerves had me picking at my beignet, which sprayed powdered sugar everywhere and made things worse. “I ain’t working till nine.” There. She might catch my hint.

  “Yeah, the boss sure likes it when you’re there. Lorraine doesn’t have your charm.”

  Our eyes met and held for one solid minute, and I came close to blurting everything out—how she was the prettiest woman I’d ever seen, how I wanted to leave lipstick smears all over her delicate collar bones, how I wanted every bit of her skin rubbing against mine.

  Instead, I blinked. “Charm?” My laugh came out more harsh than polite. “I think he just wants to play mattress polo.” The thought made me sick. The boss was well into his thirties and had more hair under his nose than he did on his head. “Fat chance.”

  She smiled like we were sharing a big secret. “That’s why he likes you. Guys always want what they can’t have.”

  Guys. I didn’t waste much time thinking about them. I mean, some of them were handsome enough, but most of them were slobs. “Making whoopee with a billy goat.”

  "You'd know." Her grin turned saucy. "You're the farm girl."

  I snorted into my coffee.

  "I mean"—she propped her elbows on the table, her coffee mug held in both hands—“if not a billy goat, there must have been some boy back home."

  "Nope. Not me." My smile felt too tight, and my heart tripped over itself. I'd die before I told her about the girl back home. I'd come to Sodom and Gomorrah so I could have some fun, but people were the same everywhere. I couldn't simply walk up to Vaughn and ask her to kiss me, could I? “I expect after a while I'll go home and find one.”

  “Hmm...you deserve someone special.” With a little frown, Vaughn’s gaze followed an old milk truck rolling past, spewing exhaust from the rear end. "I doubt I'll ever find a boy for myself."

  Now that comment gave me hope, and my mouth took off without my brain. “Well, m
aybe one day we’ll be a couple of old maids together. You can make the dinner, and I'll sew our clothes.”

  “You sew?” Her gaze pinned me, leaving me breathless.

  “I made this.” I picked at my skirt. My pink calico shift wasn’t much, but the gathers were neatly done. “Back where I’m from, ladies been asking me to make them things since I was twelve.” I hadn’t stayed in school long, but at times my old Singer earned better money than Dad’s farm, which was why I still sent Momma a check every month.

  “Did you do the embroidery?” She gestured to the neckline of my dress. “It’s lovely.”

  “It’s only a chain stitch. I can do much fancier stuff than this.”

  She grasped my hand, and the shiver she sent through me landed in the pit of my belly. “If I sketched you something, could you make it?”

  I pulled my hand away—not to be rude, but so I wouldn’t embarrass us both by lacing our fingers together. “I could, but I left my sewing machine behind.”

  Crossing her arms, she tapped a peach-painted fingertip against her matching lips. “I’ll ask Leo if he’s got a machine. We could be partners.”

  “Leo?” She'd said she didn't have a boyfriend.

  Her laugh set me at ease. “No”—she took my hand again, leaving me breathless—“he’s my friend. An old, old friend.”

  “All right.” I couldn’t bring myself to draw my hand away. “If you find me a Singer, I’ll make you a dress.”

  “Sweetheart, if I find you a Singer, we’re setting us up a shop and dressing the finest ladies in this town.”

  I nodded vigorously, but in my mind I planned the dress I’d make for her. Amber, to bring out the warm tints in her hair or maybe a soft green to show off her eyes. Silk, to drift over her shoulders and fall low in the back. She’d be so lovely. She was so lovely.

  Chapter 3

  The next three nights at work, someone left envelopes with my name on them at the hat check counter. Each held a small painted square, and each one piqued my interest. Took me a couple to realize they were part of a picture someone had sliced into sections like a puzzle. But who? So far I had a corner showing the drape of a burgundy skirt, a snippet of a darling rolled-brim hat trimmed with roses, and another corner showing a blurry Magnolia tree in bloom.