Betty sighed. “I agree. I’m just nervous. What if Lane questions you about where you live?”
Patsy clasped her hands over her chest. “I won’t tell him. I won’t. I promise.”
Betty shook her head. Then nodded. Then shook her head again. “You need to have an answer for where you live, why you had to meet him at the Rooster’s Nest. Something believable.”
Patsy floundered a nod. Some sort of preplanned answer would be helpful, but she had no idea what it could be.
Jane snapped her fingers. “I know. You can tell him that the three of us live together, in an apartment that doesn’t allow men. You know, like those ones near the secretarial school, and that the only way we can go out at night is to sneak out.”
That was so true. There were apartments near the school, with caretakers who didn’t let the girls go out, nor did they allow men to enter the buildings. Girls who attended the school from out of town lived in them. Patsy often wondered about the girls she’d befriended while at school and the secretarial classes, because once she’d graduated, she’d never had a chance to see any of them again.
“That could work,” Betty said thoughtfully. “And explain why we’ll be waiting for you at the trolley stop.”
“Not could, it will work,” Jane said. “We’ve all met some of the girls who live at those apartments at other speakeasies.”
Patsy was as thrilled with the idea as she was with her sisters. This was how it had always been, the three of them working together. “The best part is, it’s true,” she said. “All of it.” Glancing at her sisters, she admitted, “At times, it can be hard to remember things that aren’t true.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” Betty said with a sigh.
“So, we are in agreement?” Jane asked.
Patsy held out a hand, because that’s what they always did, too. They made a pact on it by stacking their hands atop one another. “Agreed.”
Jane slapped her hand on top of Patsy’s. “Agreed.”
Betty hesitated, but then slapped a hand atop of Jane’s. “Agreed.” She then glanced at Jane. “And I am sorry about last night.”
Jane grinned and dropped the beater to slap her other hand over Betty’s. “Forgiven.”
Although Patsy had not been that upset over Betty being late, she slapped her other hand on top of Jane’s. “Forgiven.”
Betty smiled and dropped her rug beater before slapping her other hand on the top. “One for all and all for one.”
They all three laughed, and hugged each other before they tugged the rug off the line, careful to not let it touch the ground. As they worked, they whispered about the fun Patsy would have that night, and how she had to tell them everything about it.
She readily agreed to tell them about any and all celebrities. However, she wasn’t nearly as excited about who would be there as she was about being Lane’s date. That was the thrilling part for her. Seeing him again. That sort of scared her, too. At how much she liked him. More and more each day.
* * *
Lane twisted to see the side of his head in the mirror as he drew the comb through his still-damp hair. He hadn’t taken this amount of time on his appearance in years. His clothes were always clean, and his body, but he rarely used the mirror for anything more than the minutes it took to shave.
He took a step back from the sink to check his image, adjusting his tie and collar, and then checked his hair again. He smoothed back both sides at his temples with his fingers one last time. Satisfied, he spun about and left his bathroom, clicking off the light on his way out of the door.
The special attention he was paying to his appearance could be because Raymond’s party would have a large number of celebrities in attendance, but he met stars and influential persons of all walks of life on a daily basis. It was because of Libby. He didn’t want to admit that, even to himself, but it was, and the mystery behind her. Why she wouldn’t tell him her address and why she couldn’t be at the Rooster’s Nest until almost nine added to his growing list of things he needed to find out about her. Simply wanting to be a reporter just didn’t add up.
He walked through his sparsely furnished apartment that had suited him well the past few years. It shared the same parking lot as the Gazette building, which made the commute home after late nights at his office simple and quick. Those nights were more often than not. However, the past year, they had slowed considerably because he now had the perfect staff in place. From pressmen to proofreaders, his staff were as dedicated to keeping the Gazette the most read paper in the state as him.
His staff were also the reason he was able to focus on prime stories, which was his passion.
At the door, he turned around and gave his apartment a quick scan. The brown tweed couch, the spindle-leg side table holding a single lamp, the short bookcase by the door where he dropped his keys every night, the doorway that led to the kitchen, the one to the bathroom and the one to the bedroom. The wood-paneled walls and the wooden floors. There wasn’t even a rug. For a moment, he wondered what Naomi would think of it, of living here, in this barren little apartment.
A hint of a smile tugged at his lips. She wouldn’t have lived here. They’d had dreams, big dreams of a house big enough for four children. Two boys and two girls. That’s what she’d wanted. Keep everything even.
Naomi had been willing to do whatever it took to make those dreams happen. Without complaint she’d found a way to feed them both with little to nothing to spend on groceries when he first bought the Gazette. That had taken every penny he’d saved plus some, and he’d worked night and day to make it pay off.
As he had a million times over the past few years, he wished she could see how different things were now. He could easily afford whatever house she may have wanted. Except for one in Hollywoodland. He could afford it, but he would never buy property from William Dryer. After their last run-in, where he’d refused Dryer free advertising and hadn’t even acknowledged how the man had suggested that he had three eligible daughters, Dryer had tried to sully his name. He’d heard about it nearly everywhere he’d gone.
Which was precisely why Dryer was still working so hard to gain respect. He may have money, but his personality left little else but enemies in his wake.
His mind went to Libby then, wondering what she’d think of the modest and simple way he lived.
Flustered at himself for even wondering about that, he grabbed his keys, clicked off the light and left, locking the door behind him.
Once in his car, a red-and-black Chevrolet that, unlike his apartment, was brand new and one of the most expensive models on the market, he checked his watch. It was almost eight thirty. Perfect amount of time to drive to the Rooster’s Nest.
He drove the Chevy out of the parking lot, and shifted into second as he rolled down Second Avenue. The two-door coupe purred like a kitten in a sunny window. The coupe, along with a few other models, was making automobile manufactures scratch their heads, trying to design something comparable. It hadn’t happened yet, and the coupe was bypassing other models in sales nationwide.
Lane turned onto Broadway Boulevard. There was plenty of traffic, par for the course of downtown LA, but the smooth steering of the coupe had him swerving around cars two and three at a time. Traffic lessened the closer he got to the outskirts of town, and he shifted into third gear, rested his arm on the open window and pressed his foot on the pedal. The roar of the engine was music to his hears, and ate up the last couple of miles in no time.
He found a parking spot along the street near the corner where the streetcar would stop and got out of his car.
While walking around to the passenger side, he shined the chrome on the headlights with one hand, and then leaned against the front fender where he had a good view of the corner.
The streetcar should be along within a few minutes. The idea of checking for Libby inside the Rooster’s Nest
crossed his mind, but instincts said she wasn’t there. She’d be getting off the streetcar. Along with the two other flappers he’d seen leave the Rooster’s Nest last night, the same two who had jumped on the trolley from the alleyway along with her the other night.
He wondered what she’d be wearing tonight. Not that it mattered, she’d look cute no matter what, and chins were going to drop when he walked into Raymond’s with her on his arm.
He clenched his jaw together at that thought. This was a job. Nothing more. He had to make sure she didn’t write up what she knew about Gaynor and send it off to another paper. There was nothing more to this night than that.
Nothing.
The ring of the trolley sounded, and he rested an elbow on the hood of his car, waiting for the red-and-white streetcar to roll to a halt. A moment later, it stopped, and Libby stepped down the small set of stairs and onto the sidewalk.
Lane bit the inside of his lip to keep from reacting to the sight of her. She had on a black-and-white-striped dress, sleeveless, with a V neckline. A string of pearls made a choker around her neck and then hung down to the dropped waistline of her dress. The hem barely covered her knees, and a pair of rolled-down silk hose covered her ankles above a pair of shiny white shoes.
A smile built on her face with every step she took. By the time she arrived at his side, her teeth, as pearly white as the beads hanging around her neck, were showing behind her bright red lipstick.
“Well, hello, Oliver,” she said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
He glanced at the other two women who had gotten off the trolley after her. Neither of them cast so much of a glance his way, but he recognized they were the two he’d seen last night, and the night before. They were both blonde, petite like her, and trying too hard to not look their way.
Turning his attention back to Libby, he nodded. “Fancy that.”
She laughed, and then reached out and straightened his tie. It was a simple action that felt far more intimate than it truly was.
“We match,” she said. “We are both wearing black and white.” She gave him an up-and-down appraisal. “You sure look spiffy, Oliver.”
“You look very lovely,” he said, surprised at how raspy his voice sounded. Lovely didn’t even begin to describe her. The beaded hat covering her blond hair framed her face. Her bright blue eyes, creamy smooth complexion and, of course, those dual dimples in her cheeks were mesmerizing.
“Thank you.” She did a perfect pirouette on the toe of one white shoe, giving him a glimpse of the back of the dress.
He sucked in a breath at how the dress left half of her upper back bare, and held it until the whistle itching to let loose dissolved. He knew actresses who were going to be green with envy tonight.
“Shall we?” he asked, stepping over to open the passenger door.
“Yes!” She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling her giggle as she climbed in the coupe. “This is so exciting!”
“I hope you aren’t disappointed.”
“Disappointed in what?”
Needing to remind himself as much as her, he said, “Reporting isn’t all fun and games. The party could be as flat as a tire on an old rust bucket.” He closed the door and walked around the car. Raymond’s party was sure to be a roaring time. It was him who would be the flat tire. He had to keep this all business.
“I promise I won’t be disappointed, Oliver,” she said as he climbed in.
He started the engine while asking, “Why do you want to be a reporter?”
She sighed and sat quiet for a moment, then said, “Because I want to learn all there is to learn about life, see all there is to see, and not from the sideline, not from just reading about it.”
The hair on his arms quivered at her reply, because he knew exactly what she meant. He’d felt that exact same way while living on his family’s farm, and while reading every newspaper he could get his hands on, he’d deduced that was the way he could learn and see everything firsthand, while getting paid to do it.
“I bet you think that sounds silly,” she said quietly.
“No, no, I don’t think it sounds weird.” He pulled away from the curb and contemplated what he was about to say. “Being a reporter is a competitive field, and to be honest, there aren’t a lot of women reporters.”
“Only because people think women should be cleaning and cooking rather than having a real job.”
The sarcasm in her voice was unmistakable, and he could understand it. He’d embraced the new roles women had taken in life, in the workforce and at home. In society as a whole. He also understood the reality of making a house a home. “Not everyone thinks that. I don’t. I think women should be able to pursue their interests, whatever they might be. I also know cooking and cleaning is hard work,” he offered.
“Yeah, well, you’re probably the only one who does think that.” She huffed out a breath. “A person sure doesn’t get to see much of the world cooking and cleaning all the time.”
“I agree with you on that, too.” He admired her honesty and could relate because he knew what it was like to be driven with one goal in sight.
“What made you want to be a reporter?” she asked.
He could lie, but there was no reason to. “For the same reason you just said. I wanted to learn about things, people, places, events, up close and in person, and then tell others about it.” Oddly, she was the first person he’d ever told that to. The first person who’d ever asked him that question.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Bee’s knees,” she whispered.
He grinned. “I tell you what, you write something about Raymond’s party tonight, and if it’s suitable, I’ll see about printing it in the society section of the paper.”
She gasped so hard she coughed. “You mean it, Lane?”
“Yes, I mean it.” He was going to have to write something about Raymond’s party. That was the main reason he’d been invited, the main reason he was invited to parties on a regular basis. He remembered what it was like striving to get his first article printed and figured it was only fair that he be the one to give her that shot. “But be warned, some parts might change during the editing process.”
“I don’t care.” She grabbed a hold of his arm. “Thank you. Thank you so much!”
Her excitement made him smile, which also made him warn, “Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t written anything and I haven’t read it.”
She giggled and released her hold on his arm. “You’re right. But I will. I will.”
He turned the corner, and shifted gears to speed up the boulevard, half wondering if he truly knew what he was doing. Giving a reporter a chance and taking her to Raymond’s party weren’t even close to going hand in hand, but, something inside him felt right. A part of him that had been empty, invisible, for a long time.
“I, uh, need to tell you something, Oliver, I mean, Lane.”
His body tensed at how serious she sounded. “Oh?”
She sighed. “Yes.”
She not only sounded somber, but also unsure. Maybe she was changing her mind about becoming a reporter. “What is it?”
“The reason I asked you to meet me at the Rooster’s Nest.”
He’d forgotten about that. She had a way of doing that to him. Made him forget certain aspects that should be filling his mind. “Why was that?”
“Because of where I live. No men are allowed there and I have to sneak out after others go to bed.” She sighed. “You’ve heard of the secretarial school, haven’t you?” Shaking her head, she continued, “Of course you have. Well, they have housing there for students and...”
Relief oozed out of him so completely he barely heard the rest of what she said. That made perfect sense. The headmistress of the school ruled with an iron ruler. One of the secretaries at the Gazette had gone to school there a
nd had told him about the strict rules that all the girls attending had to adhere to or risk getting kicked out.
“...catch the red line by eleven forty-five.”
The streetcars shut down at midnight, so that, too, made sense. “Those two girls that got off the trolley with you, are they students there, too?”
She grimaced while nodding.
He was glad that she’d admitted that, and that she’d told him about the school. “Don’t worry, I’ll have you back in time to catch the trolley.”
“Thank you.”
“Is that all?”
“Is that all what?”
“All that you had to tell me?”
“Yes.”
They would arrive at Raymond’s apartment building in a few minutes and her admission had made him remember a few other bits of information he still needed to know about her. “What about a last name?” he asked. “So I can introduce you to my friends.”
“Oh.”
He glanced her way, and saw how hard she swallowed.
“Bell.”
He refrained from letting his disbelief show. However, he couldn’t help but ask, “Your name is Liberty Bell?”
She flinched and grimaced. “Yes, no. It’s actually Bellamy.”
No, it wasn’t. He could call her out on that, but decided not to. Chasing a story was part of the fun, and finding the truth behind this one could be more fun than he’d had in a long time. “All right,” he said. “Libby Bellamy it is.”
“Yes, that’s my name, Libby Bellamy.”
Her shoulders rose as she drew in a deep breath.
He pulled into the parking lot of Raymond’s complex, and had to circle the lines of cars in order to find a parking spot. The fact no one would know her real name was actually a good thing. There would be other reporters there, and a story about him would make headline news in some of the other papers.
She waited for him to climb out, and walk around to open her door. Stepping out, she smiled up at him. “You can just introduce me as Libby.”
The Flapper's Fake Fiancé Page 8
