The Flapper's Fake Fiancé

by Lauri Robinson

  She shivered from head to toe.

  Father was a tall man, with wide shoulders and snow-white hair that he had shaved short each month at the barbershop on Fifth Avenue, and right now his face was fire red. All in all, he looked taller, and madder than she’d ever seen.

  Lane’s hand tightened on her waist. “I took your advice, but unfortunately, Patsy and I got caught in the storm this afternoon,” Lane said.

  “My advice... Caught in the storm?” Father’s brows knit tighter together.

  “Yes, your advice to consider dating one of your daughters,” Lane said.

  Patsy’s insides shivered as she turned to look at him.

  He grinned at her, and her father. “You remember, William, when you asked if I’d be interested in one of your daughters?”

  Father’s jaw dropped.

  “I am,” Lane said. “Patsy.”

  Patsy nearly jolted out of her shoes. This was all her fault, and she had to do something about it. But what? Lane was making things worse.

  Wide-eyed, she looked at him. Half sick and half scared to death at the same time.

  “An engagement.” Once again, Lane turned to her father. “With your permission, of course.”

  Permission? The weight on her shoulders pressed down harder. Father would never give his permission.

  “My permission.” Father shook his head and then, grinning, nodded. “Yes, yes, I remember. Come in. Come in.” Father waved a hand. “You will join us for supper.”

  “I’d be honored,” Lane said.

  No! Patsy wanted to shout, but couldn’t. Her throat was locked up. Father may have appeared approachable then, but that wouldn’t last long.

  “But first,” he continued, “Patsy needs a bath and a change of clothing.”

  Patsy was too dumbfounded to reply. It was almost as if she was dreaming—actually having a nightmare—where things were happening and she couldn’t stop them or even react to them.

  No, it wasn’t a dream, it was just her life.

  A life that would soon be over.

  Lane aided her forward, all the way to the house, up the steps and through the front door. As they stepped into the foyer, Father instructed her to go change her clothing. She wasn’t trying to disobey, but her feet wouldn’t move. Some form of invisible glue had her stuck to the floor.

  Or it may have been pure fear. Fear of what would happen, would be said, once she was out of hearing distance.

  “Go,” Lane said quietly. “I’ll be here when you come down.”

  Patsy shook her head.

  “Marlys!” Father barked mother’s name. “Set another plate at the table. Mr. Cox will be joining us.”

  “You can do this, Libby,” Lane whispered, and gave her a tiny shove toward the wide, curved staircase that led to the second floor.

  Her feet seemed to come unglued from the floor and a strange reverie overcame her. In a trance, with one focus, she grabbed a hold of the banister post, and with a sense of panic, knowing she didn’t have much time, she shot up the stairs. Still sick to her stomach and worried over what was being said, she ran to the bathroom, pulled off her wet clothing, washed quickly and then ran to her bedroom, where she threw on clean clothes and shoes, and combed her hair.

  Her heart was racing and her breathing quick, having performed every task in record time all the while thinking about how Lane didn’t know any of Father’s rules. Whatever had possessed him to say an engagement ? Did he think that would help? There was no hope in this situation.

  No hope for any of them.

  She didn’t want to be engaged.

  Didn’t want to be married.

  Especially to one of the men Father chose.

  Which was Lane!

  She liked him, but she didn’t want to be engaged to him. Married to him.

  She had to explain that they weren’t engaged, and get him out of the house immediately.

  With no time to lose, she ran down the stairs, swung around the molded banister post and shot down the hallway to her father’s office.

  The door was open. The room empty.

  She could hear her heart pounding, her breath gasping. Spinning around, she flew back to the foyer and through the living room, toward the dining room, and skidded to a halt just outside the doorway.

  Her entire family sat there. Father. Mother. Betty. Jane.

  And Lane.

  Her heart sank.

  He lifted a brow and then gave a very subtle nod toward the empty chair next to him.

  She swallowed so hard she almost choked, and then forced her feet to move. One in front of the other until arriving at the table.

  “Mother kept supper warm,” Father said gruffly.

  The trance was still there, surrounding her, making everything foggy, yet, knowing and following the rules, Patsy acknowledged his statement. “Thank you, Mother.” She then sat down, in the chair next to Lane, and folded her quivering hands in her lap.

  Father said grace, which was a hypocrisy because there wasn’t a single person in the room who was thankful to be where they were at this precise moment. Her sisters were shooting questioning looks her way under their lashes. She could imagine what they were thinking.

  It’s over.

  That’s what they were thinking, and they were right.

  It’s over.

  Mother was frowning terribly. Father was breathing through his nose, which echoed off the walls, and Lane—she felt the sorriest for him—was sitting upright and pretending the silence was normal, that all was fine.

  Another hypocrisy.

  Nothing would ever be fine again. Not for any of them.

  She and her sisters would be sent to the convent, like Father had warned them for years, where they would live the rest of their lives in prayer, silence, penance and sacrifice. Just like Aunt Joan.

  Platters were passed with little more than please and thank you, which were the rules, and forks clanked against plates as everyone ate.

  Patsy was already sick to her stomach, and each swallow threatened to come right back up.

  It was the longest meal since the beginning of time.

  What felt like hours later, Father’s nod, signaling that the meal had ended, had both Betty and Jane gathering and stacking the plates and platters in front of them.

  Rising to his feet, Father said, “Mr. Cox, you and I shall retire to my office.”

  Lane stood and Patsy shot to her feet beside him.

  “I’ll—”

  “You will help your mother and sisters in the kitchen,” Father interrupted. “I will talk to you later.”

  Patsy gritted her back teeth together, trying to gather the gumption to say more. She had to say more, but was afraid. So afraid.

  Lane gave her arm a gentle squeeze as he followed her father out of the room.

  Turning to her mother, she pleaded, “Mother, please, I must—”

  “You must do as your father says, Patsy,” Mother said sternly. “He was very upset when you weren’t home. We were all worried something had happened to you.”

  “Yes, we were,” Jane added, eyes wide with questions and vexation.

  Patsy grimaced. “I just went—”

  “We won’t speak of this now.” Mother picked up the platter still holding several pieces of fried chicken. “There’s work to be done.”

  The trance around her shattered. Patsy threw her napkin on the table. “There’s always work to be done. And always will be. I have to go explain—”

  “Patsy Loraine Dryer, you will do as I say,” Mother snapped.

  “No, I can’t, I have to explain what happened, and—”

  “You can’t,” Betty said quietly. “It’ll only make things worse.” She held out several stacked plates. “Take these to the kitchen.”

  �
��Do as your sister says, Patsy.” Mother said. “Your father will have plenty to say to you when he’s finished with Mr. Cox.”

  With dread filling her, Patsy glanced over her shoulder, at the doorway toward the living room. That’s what she was afraid of, Father finishing with Lane.

  * * *

  Lane leaned back in the leather chair and took a sip of the glass in his hand. Top-shelf, the whiskey slid over his palate and down his throat as smooth as nectar. Dryer was smooth, too. For all the gruffness and silence at the table, once they’d entered his office, he’d acted as if the two of them were old friends.

  They weren’t.

  Lane wasn’t about to pretend they were, either. The small amount of time he’d spent in this household would have anyone climbing out the windows at night, and he could understand Patsy’s desperation to be out from under her father’s hand. Anger filled him at the thought of her practically being kept under lock and key. She was too full of curiosity for that, and the way she was being treated here was starving her of the life she craved.

  His hands balled into fists. Dryer had no concern for his daughter in this, no worries over what she wanted, including marriage. Dryer was thinking only of himself, and how he could come out the winner in this.

  Which irritated Lane to no end. He had been biting his tongue for over two hours, throughout the longest meal known to man, and then listening to Dryer speak of his daughters like they were stray dogs that had wandered into his yard and he was looking for someone to take them before he was forced to take them out in the woods and leave them for the coyotes. He’d acted as if he should receive sympathy for having daughters instead of sons, and how hard he’d looked to find suitable arrangements for each of them, while becoming one of the richest men in the state.

  Dryer had been sure to point that out several times. He’d claimed to have settled on a man for the oldest, Betty, and a possible one for Jane to marry, but hadn’t yet found one to take on Patsy, and was glad his search was over because finding men who had their own money—and were not after his—was an extremely difficult task for a man of his wealth and status.

  Thoughts of Sarah had entered Lane’s mind several times since being sequestered in Dryer’s office. He wondered how he’d have reacted if she’d have lived, grown into a young woman and brought a man home who wanted to court her. Try as he might, Lane couldn’t make a comparison. Not because Sarah hadn’t lived beyond infanthood, but because he knew he’d never have been the kind of father William Dryer was.

  Memories of his own childhood had entered his mind several times, too. Of dinners around the table with his parents and grandparents. It had been nothing like the family dinner he’d sat through earlier. His mother’s kitchen had been small and cramped compared with the Dryers’ dining room. There had been red gingham curtains on the windows, not velvet draperies, and the plates had been hardy stoneware, not fine china, but his mother’s kitchen had been booming with conversation and laughter. Not only during mealtime. The house he’d grown up in had been a happy place, full of people who truly cared about and truly loved each other.

  That was lacking in the Dryer house.

  He’d bet the walls of this place rarely heard laughter. The house was sparkling clean. The wood floors and furnishing gleamed with new polish and the rugs and upholstered furniture didn’t show a speck of wear. It was like the place wasn’t, nor ever had been, lived in.

  Which made him understand Patsy even more why she wanted to live, because she sure wasn’t given the opportunity to do so here.

  Lane finished his drink, emptying the glass completely, and then leaned forward to set it on the corner of Dryer’s huge mahogany desk. “Aren’t you curious as to how I met Patsy?”

  Dryer tossed back the last of his drink. “I’m assuming that once you came to your senses about marrying one of my daughters, you came to the house.” He leaned back in his chair. “Something I will talk to her about since she shouldn’t have left without permission.”

  Lane’s plan was to stick as close to the truth as possible. The truth had always been his motto, but right now, he was thinking about Patsy, and Henry. William Dryer did not need to know anything about Henry or Vincent Burrows, or Rex Gaynor. A man who was willing to trade his daughter off for weekly advertisements—Dryer had referenced free advertisements for family near the onset of their conversation—was thinking only about what he had to gain, not about anyone else.

  Lane was. He was thinking about several people. He’d sworn the man who had killed Naomi and Sarah would pay. Up until today, he’d thought that man was Rex Gaynor. Now he knew differently, and knowing differently added several other people into the mix. This was no longer about only the train robbery. Henry’s secret location was at risk, which could put his ability to find Burrows at risk. Burrows needed to be caught, but there was more to it than that. Patsy was at risk, too. Of never having a chance to pursue her dream. If that meant going along with a false engagement for a week, so be it.

  He’d discovered more about William Dryer this evening than he’d ever expected to know. In fact, Dryer was the epitome of expectations. He was used to getting what he wanted because it was exactly what he expected, and used his size and gruffness to coerce, even terrorize, people at times, break them down until he got exactly that.

  That wouldn’t work on him. As a reporter, he was used to people attempting to intimidate him, to give them what they expected. He had expectations, too, for himself and others, and had learned years ago how to not give people like Dryer any control over the situation. In truth, he’d used coercion himself on a regular basis when digging for the truth behind deceptions and closed doors.

  The difference between him and Dryer was the reason behind it all. Lane fought for justice for all. Dryer fought only for himself.

  “You’ll find out soon enough, Patsy is a bit strong-willed,” Dryer said. “It takes a heavy hand to keep her in line.”

  A rush of annoyance washed over Lane. Keeping his temper in check because he didn’t want to make things worse for Patsy, he gave the older man a condescending look. “I do know she’s strong-willed, and admire that. As well as many other things about her.”

  “Her mother and I have made sure she knows all there is to know about being a wife. Cooking and cleaning. Knowing her place,” Dryer said with pride.

  Dryer had the right to be proud of his daughters, but Lane couldn’t find any pride in keeping them locked up the way he had. “If I was to marry Patsy—”

  “If? There’s no if.”

  “Yes, there is. The right wife is as important to a man as the right husband is to a woman,” Lane said. This was one time Dryer wasn’t going to be in charge. “If I was to marry Patsy, her ‘knowing her place,’ as you say, would be different from what she’s had here at home. My position, and therefore that of my wife, includes a lot of social affairs, and I need to know that Patsy is capable of that. Therefore I suggest a trial period of—”

  “Trial period! Now, see here!” Dryer shouted.

  “Of seeing if Patsy would make a suitable wife,” Lane continued. He figured the Burrows case would be all wrapped up within the week, then life could get back to normal. “Surely you can understand that, William, a man of your standing?”

  William blustered, but eventually nodded. “How long?”

  Lane didn’t want to push things too far, nor want to drag this out longer than necessary, either. “A week, and I give you my solemn oath that her virtue will never be compromised in any way.”

  William regarded him with a long thoughtful gaze before he nodded. “I appreciate that you understand my concerns, and I can understand yours. I will agree to one week, on the condition that your outings with my daughter will be in public places.”

  Lane nodded, and hoped Patsy would agree to it, too. She didn’t want to get married any more than he did, and this was a solution that would work for b
oth of them. Being seen in public would quell the rumors of their engagement, and by this time next week, the gossipmongers would have new targets.

  “As you can see, Lane, I’m a reasonable man,” Dryer said, standing up.

  Chapter Twelve

  A sense of dread washed over Lane when he thought of how William was going to act when it came time to call this whole charade off, and his mind floundered on if he’d made the right decisions as he watched Dryer walk toward the door to call in Patsy. She’d been scared out of her wits when they’d arrived at the house. If she walked into the room and told the truth.... “Wait,” Lane said.

  Dryer stopped short of pulling the door open.

  “I would like a moment alone with Patsy,” Lane said.

  Frowning, Dryer lifted his chin, as if considering the idea for a moment. A brief moment because the next minute, he shook his head. “I believe you’ve had enough time alone with my daughter today.”

  Lane had to give the man that one.

  “Pour yourself another drink, Lane, while I find Patsy and her mother.” William opened the door. “You may need it.”

  Lane glanced at his empty glass, and seriously considered refilling it. William Dryer was a solid adversary. Marrying his daughters off to well-to-do men was a goal Dryer wasn’t going to give up on.

  Lane didn’t pour another drink because he needed his mind to be as clear and sharp as possible to make sure that Patsy didn’t let anything slip about Henry or Vincent Burrows. Squeezing his temples with one hand, he admitted this had been one hell of a day.

  It was also far from over, and by the end of today, no one may come out of this a winner. Unless he came up with a plan, quick.

  It didn’t make sense that he cared so much about her. That he was going to this level, but he was. Why? A story. He’d written thousands of stories and never pretended to be engaged before. Yes, Burrows needed to be caught. But even that oath didn’t hold enough weight for this. Putting Burrows behind bars wouldn’t bring his family back to life any more than putting Gaynor behind bars seven years ago had. He knew that, and could no longer claim that was his motive. He’d been given a chance once, and he wanted Patsy to have that. What could happen in a week? He could pretend to be engaged to her for that long. It wouldn’t be that hard. He just wouldn’t kiss her again. Which shouldn’t be hard, either. He’d kept his emotions sealed for years.