But Matron might have had a point when she’d lectured, with mind-numbing regularity, the perils of me being bullheaded and stubborn. It doesn’t help there is a self-righteous devil on my other shoulder insisting while Booker may have written, he still left not merely our hometown, but the entire damn country, without so much as a word to me. That he left me to worry myself sick he would be killed on some far away field without even having said goodbye. It’s not easy to simply erase nine years of carrying the dagger of betrayal in the bottom-most, bloodiest part of my heart. Not when that disregard of me finds a new tender spot from which to draw blood every time I think of the disrespect he showed me.
Joining up to go off to war was better than being with me?
This is the question that has long occupied the largest corner of my Midnight File. The one that hammers at me constantly.
The one I never talk about. Not even to Will.
I feel like I’ve been suspended in amber for an age, while all this races through my head, but actually it’s only been seconds. Even then, all I manage to limp out is, “It’s kinda...hard...to do a complete turnaround on a belief I’ve held for nine years.” Then I pull myself up to sit yet more erect. “But I will work on it.” I meet his level blue-eyed gaze. “I will work very hard to do unto you as I would have you do unto me.”
Booker’s mouth, normally so hard these days, softens with a small smile. Maybe my evoking the golden rule reminds him of something the Lena he used to know would have said.
Which I suppose it is. My shoulders twitch in a small shrug. What can I say? You can take the girl out of the Foundling Home, but you can’t simply erase sixteen plus years of the foundling home’s preaching.
“Can’t ask for more than that.” Booker studies me a moment. Is that...disappointment I see?
If so, he merely says, “Was that the Brasher sisters I heard out in the hall with you just now?”
As I nod my agreement it was, I decide the “disappointment” was either my imagination...or wishful thinking on my part.
“What were you girls talking about?”
Either way, I’m grateful for the change of subject. I probably shouldn’t be surprised he heard us; we hadn’t exactly been quiet. “We saw Don Q, Son of Zorro at the Orpheum this evening and Dot and Clara cannot quit arguing over who is the best leading man: its star, Douglas Fairbanks Jr, or Rudolf Valentino.”
“I thought Valentino was dead.”
“Oh, he definitely is. Dot’s been mourning his passing for almost two months now. But she maintains he’ll forever be a legend.”
Booker quirks a brow. “And what side did you come down on?”
“Neither. I’m stuck on Rod La Rocque.” As a flash of heat steals up my neck and across my face, I mentally curse my ancestors for giving me such fair skin. What on earth possessed me to tell Booker Jameson, of all people, about my crush on a Hollywood leading man? Must I really voice every thought to pop into my head? Goodness gracious Agnes. I pine for the day when I adopt a little classiness.
At least I managed to keep to myself my old fantasy of the movie idol sweeping in to rescue me from the life turned gray after Booker left.
I do my best to rise to my feet in a calm, casual way. It’s not as easy as it sounds with this itchy impulse to leap up and run as fast and far from Booker’s office as I can get.
He stands too and I try to ignore the way he always seems to take up every inch of available space whenever he’s near.
Oh, the heck with it. When in doubt, brass your way through it, I always say. “Well.” I sidestep the chair still brushing the backs of my knees. “I’m glad we cleared the air. I should get going. I have some, um, things to do before my first set.”
His hands slap softly atop the desk, making me jump even though the sound was barely audible. Balancing his weight on the tips of his fingers and thumbs, he stares at me searchingly for a moment.
I wonder if my thoughts are written all over my face. Hoping to mask my inner turmoil, I manage the Foundling Home smile. The one I learned to slap on young when I was paraded in front of couples looking to adopt. I know how to sell it. Know how to make this smile look the next best thing to real.
Booker, however, doesn’t appear to buy it. Or perhaps he’s simply unaffected by it. Either way, he straightens and turns his attention to the calendar pinned on the adjacent wall.
It’s no secret he keeps employee scheduling, employee’s birthdays and every single appointment or delivery pertinent to the club on the thing. He has to turn his head to get a good look at it, so I have a moment to study him unobserved.
There’s a catch in my chest every time I see anew the man Booker has become. Not that there aren’t still traces of the boy I once loved. Bone structure like that, in the lean angles of his jaw, the sharpness of his cheekbones, doesn’t just change.
But the adult Booker is stronger than his teenaged self, both in mind and body. He’s more...hard boiled. More honed down to the bone. And he carries himself with a confidence he didn’t have a full grip on back in the days when I thought I knew everything there was to know about him.
I’d bet my bottom dollar he doesn’t give two figs about his father’s opinion nowadays.
Booker turns back to me and I quickly drop my gaze to give my fingernails an intensely interested inspection.
“You remember you have a fitting for your new gowns at Frederick and Nelson a week from tomorrow, right?”
I swallow hard. Whether at the sudden change of subject or in anticipation of new clothing, I am not sure. But it’s a lifeline and I grab it. “Yes, at four p.m. I have the seamstress’s name in my purse.” Considering how beside myself excited I am about this, I’m proud of the breeziness of my reply.
But, oh, my golly! Except for a single gown I received from the management at the Tropics, I have always supplied my own stage outfits. And the one from the Tropics’ had been a hand me down.
Booker, however, supplies up to five gowns for any singer deemed to bring increased profits to the Twilight Room. It was in my contract, but I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t actually read it all that carefully. I was too impressed with the money I’d be getting. It was much, much better than I had received from any other singing gig I’ve ever had. Besides, the lounge always seems full to bursting to me, so I have no idea how Booker determines these profits. From the money the bar brings in, maybe? I know from nothing when it comes to running a joint this big and swanky.
I don’t truly care. I’m just excited about the dresses. I have never in my life had one specially tailored to fit my body, never mind five dresses all at the same time. It makes me feel like Mrs. GotRocks.
I look up to see Booker studying me, his expression—well, I can’t really tell if that’s satisfaction I see or something entirely different.
I’m suddenly awash with an overload of emotion seeking an outlet, which in my case unfortunately usually means uncontrollable tears. I would rather chew rusty nails than let Booker see that, so I murmur a hasty excuse to hurry me out of his office.
Before I say or do something to give away my sincere befuddlement and complete and utter lack of sophistication.
10
susan andersen
Are you even listening to me?
LENA
I have managed to dodge Booker for four nights now. I am slowly coming to accept neither of us was at fault for the missing correspondence. What I cannot seem to move beyond is the old resentment, which resurrected the minute I discovered my dream job was in the very joint Booker Jameson owns.
The mere thought of it has me churning up a full head of steam. I would love to say it’s a simple fix, a mere matter of turning down the heat beneath the boiling kettle that is my bitterness. But no matter how many times I have gone through this, how many promises I make to myself to move on for pity’s sake, my fury over the way Booker dumped me refuses to go away. It will cool down. It will even sleep for long periods of time. But darned if it doesn’t re
fuse to lay down its weapons and just walk away. I know I oughtta be over it by now. Heaven knows I’m not the teenaged girl I was then.
Yet, every time the memory resurfaces out of the wreckage Booker left behind, every time I think of the sheer betrayal I felt when he left me flat, I am somehow still caught by surprise. Before him, I had gotten over the abandonment of my mother. Heck, that was more the idea of it than the actual leaving me, anyway. Because when she left me on the steps of the B of C, I was too young to have more than a hazy impression of a woman singing to me. I had even grown accustomed to being repeatedly deserted by the kids who’d befriended me in the orphanage before they had to move on. But I had honestly believed Booker was different.
Turns out he wasn’t. Having to learn that lesson finally made me wise up. It made me quit expecting anything from anyone. Well, except Will—I refuse to paint him with the same brush.
The missing letters apparently weren’t Booker’s or my fault. But when it came to going off to war, Booker did so willfully. He had a choice. He chose to go to a continent far, far away without uttering a word to me about it. Just left without a single discussion, as if my opinion didn’t matter.
It doesn’t take a genius to understand it wasn’t merely my opinions that hadn’t mattered. No, sir, why stop there? I hadn’t mattered. Not one. Damn. Bit.
Well, never mind. I stomp out the flames of my righteous indignation and tuck its not quite cold ashes into the dustiest chamber of my Midnight File. This one with fireproof walls and its own extra sturdy lock and key.
I truly don’t want to fight with him anymore.
But neither do I like the idea of spending any more time in his company than I absolutely have to. I made myself a few vows when he marched off trailing my bleeding heart behind him. Not that I foresaw this situation as an option back then, but I did swear I was through putting myself in positions that allowed people to take pot shots at my heart. Never again. And I’d determined I would make something of myself through my singing.
Yet here I am. Juggling my two old vows, which are pretty much pitted against each other now I’m working for Booker. It’s just too darn difficult. In fact, it’s starting to become more and more obvious I should—
“Are you even listening to me?”
I blink and give Clara an apologetic grimace. “Sorry, my mind wandered for a second there. What did you say?”
“I need to stop at the five and dime. I’m out of rouge and my knees have been throwing a tizzy fit.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Talking knees. You dancers have such interesting body parts. Still. Rouged knees are all the rage. So, Woolworth or Kress’s?
“Either works for me.” Clara’s brow wrinkles. “Don’t you think it’s odd that two stores selling basically the same stuff to the same people set up business right across the street from each other? Seems to me they would make more profit if each had its own territory.”
“Like these eight blocks are yours and those eight are mine?”
“Yeah, something like that.” Clara abruptly cuts loose a belly laugh. “I’m sure they’re sorry as can be they’re not following my business plan. Seeing as how I’m so educated in fi-nance-seez and all.” She flashes a big grin. “They probably weep over their loss all the way to the bank.”
Dot dashes up to us just then, her lightweight coat unbuttoned and flapping behind her. “Sorry, sorry,” she says as she approaches. “I didn’t mean to hold up the show. MacDougall is having a sale and it was a crush in there.”
Clara lights up. “You find any bargains?”
“Did I…?” Dot holds out a shopping bag. Gives it a shake. “Who’s the undisputed queen of the bargain basement deals in this family?” she demands.
“That would be you,” Clara concedes and the two women laugh uproariously, then dive in to inspect Dot’s purchase.
I shake my head at their antics, but smile along with them. I so like these girls. In the short time I’ve known them, they have been nothing but fun. And so nice to me. They don’t say one thing while actually meaning something entirely different. Next to Will, they have to be the most genuine people I’ve met in...
Well, an enormously long time. What makes it exceptionally nice is never once have I felt them working an agenda. That’s nothing short of a marvel, considering some of the operators I’ve rubbed up against over the years. I have worked some joints—a few of them barely one step above a dive, others more elegant—where getting stage time was downright cutthroat. I swear to heaven a great many performers would kill their competitor’s granny if it meant fifteen more minutes onstage or somehow otherwise boosted them another rung up the ladder.
I’m proud of having earned my spots with my voice, rather than playing the old slap and tickle game with the far too many men who trade in sexual favors for a spot in the lineup. It was tough for a while, but word got around after the time a particularly handsy manager refused to take no for an answer and I sang my way down the street to another bar. By itself, that would likely have landed me on the dole. But a parade of Mr. Handsy’s patrons followed me as if I were the Pied Piper—and the other bar owner was impressed enough to hire me on the spot.
I smile, but shake off the memory. Dot and Clara straight out adopted me from my first night at the Twilight Room. They regularly invite me to join them in their before work activities . They have also had me over to their apartment, which is so high class compared to my Women’s Residence room. I have been there twice to listen to the brand new NBC National broadcast on their equally new wireless. And they’re trying to teach me to dance. I’m far from a natural, so that’s kind of a riot all by itself.
The Brasher girls make me feel special, yet they act as if including me in whatever they’re doing is the most natural thing in the world.
I’m not used to this feeling, as if I’m part of a sisterhood. As if I belong. It’s been an age since I gave up attachments at the Blood of Christ. I had to. The lows when they regularly ended after the thrilling highs of the beginnings kept getting more and more painful. I’m trying to be an optimist about Clara and Dot, though. Because the way they’ve included me sure feels swell.
Kinda splendid, actually.
Today we’re on a shopping spree. Well, Dot and Clara are. I’m mostly luxuriating in their enthusiasm rather than doing any real shopping of my own.
As if she can read my thoughts, Dot suddenly turns to me. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re not buying anything, missy,” she says sternly.
I shrug. “I’m copacetic.”
“Oh, hell, no. Not if you aren’t participating, you’re not. You haven’t bought a single new thing since we met—and face it, doll, your wardrobe could use a few updates. Isn’t Mr. Jameson paying you enough? Sis and me’s paychecks are pretty damn generous, compared to some of the juice joints we’ve worked. But maybe he doesn’t pay singers on the same scale?”
“Oh! No. I mean, yes!” I sound like a total idjit and am unable to do anything but stand there for a moment, my hands dangling uselessly at my sides as I gaze at both sisters helplessly. “This is more money than I’ve ever made in my life. Anywhere. Ever.” Okay, I just said that. Still, it bears repeating.
“Then why aren’t you buying anything?”
“I don’t know. I just…I guess I’ve been on a strict budget for so long, I can’t quite believe I actually have money left over after I pay my bills. I can’t seem to pry my grip off my purse strings.” I shrug helplessly. “It’s ingrained in my bones to save for a rainy day.”
Clara nods. “Lord knows there’s always one of those around the corner. But, Lena...” She slings an arm around my shoulder and hugs me to her side. “...while I understand more than you might think about putting money away for that rainy day, you also gotta treat yourself sometimes. You have to celebrate the good times as well as put aside money for the bad ones. Because you are making good money right now.” She looks me over, her gaze settling on my old worn cloche. “So, let’s go f
ind you a new hat, sister, ‘cause that one has gotta go.” She nods at Dot. “My trip to Woolworth can wait a while longer. We need to go back to MacDougall’s.”
We do exactly that. Heck, we not only shop at MacDougall’s, but also go to the new Rhodes Department Store. We listen for darn near half an hour to the man playing piano requests from prospective buyers wanting to hear a song from the stacks of colorfully illustrated sheet music. At one point, I even sing along. I can’t help myself. I just love Bye Bye Blackbird.
I don’t feel so silly when Dot and Clara break into dance when the pianist plays I’m Gonna Charleston back to Charleston.
The sisters are much bolder than me. When the crowd around the pianist applaud enthusiastically, Dot says, “If y’all wanna hear more of Lola’s singing or my sister and me’s dancing annnnd the best band in town, stop by The Twilight Room. You won’t be disappointed.”
As we head once again to the five and dime, I can’t stop checking out my reflection in the store windows we pass. I’m wearing the most beautiful cloche in the history of the world. Dot says its midnight blue color brings out my eyes and, although Matron Davidson would smack my knuckles with a ruler for my immodesty, I have to agree. It really does. A half inch band of bronze satin edges the curve of the cloche’s brim from ear to ear. Four skinny bands sit behind the broader one and another four repeat the pattern nearer the crown. A big bronze and copper feather is pinned at a jaunty angle on the right.
I feel prettier than I ever have in my life. I never knew how much fun it could be to shop with friends who only want to laugh and have a good time with you. If I end up following the urge to pack up and move on that started itching at the back of my brain again after my talk with Booker the other night, I will sorely miss The Brasher sisters. So much.
Maybe I should talk to Clara and Dot about my impulse to run. Except...
It Had to be You Page 7
