by Jill G. Hall
“Fishing is similar to doing art. You gather up your materials: paints, brushes, found objects, canvas, tray or box. To fish you also have to gather the equipment: rod, reel, and bait. You can fish off the shore or a pier, or take the boat out into the middle of a lake or even into the ocean. To do art, you can dive in, sign up for a class, or find a mentor to guide you.
“With both you just need to go for it—get started, cast the line— but then wait and be patient. Maybe that day you will catch a fish or create a masterpiece, but maybe not. Either way, you showed up and tried. That’s what matters. You can always try again another day.”
“Look!” Sergio yelled. “Is that one of your great blue herons?” He pointed to a sandbar about half a mile away.
She raised her binoculars. A giant long-necked crane foraged in the reeds, feathered in pale gray, a bright-red marking on its head.
She whispered, “Oh my God, I think it’s a sandhill crane! I’ve always wanted to see one. They’re very rare here. I’d love to get closer, but we might scare it away.”
She handed the glasses to Sergio.
“Magnifico. Now what’s going on?” He handed the binoculars back to Anne.
Tiny black birds were dive-bombing the crane. “The little birds are trying to protect their eggs, but they’re no match for the big bird. Survival of the fittest.”
“Gross.” Sergio grimaced.
After a while, the crane unfurled its wide wingspan and majestically flew away.
“Wow.” Anne smiled.
“Interessante.”
Clouds began to gather and darken, moving toward them across the lake. The smell of rain filled the air.
Anne frowned. “We should go. Sorry we got skunked.”
“That’s okay.” He shrugged.
“Maybe next time.” She doubted there would be a next time.
She pulled the string on the motor, but it wouldn’t turn over. She kept at it a few times. “I’d better stop or the engine will flood.”
Light flashed on the far-off shore. “Was that lightning?” Sergio ducked as thunder pounded the sky.
The next time she pulled the engine’s string, it snapped off. “Oh, God! We’ll have to row back.” She looked down on the floorboards near the bow, but the oars weren’t there. Darn it! Mr. Halston had reminded her to grab them from the pole barn when she got the life jackets, but she forgot. She searched the water for another craft that might give them a tow, but the lake was deserted.
Within a few minutes, the clouds burst open, dropping raindrops the size of acorns. She pulled her jacket’s hood over her hat and handed Sergio the giant windbreaker, and he tugged it on.
“We’ll need to wait until someone comes and tows us in. It could be a while.” She hoped they wouldn’t need to spend the night out there.
20
Farley escorted Clair to his bottle-green Lincoln. She slid onto the passenger seat and looked up toward the suite’s window. She couldn’t see him, but she knew her father was looking down with a smile on his face. To make him happy she had dressed with care, donning a powder-blue skirt and jacket, clasping the opal brooch he’d given her for Christmas onto her high-laced collar. She had pinned her hair up neatly and topped it off with her cloche.
As Aunt June had suggested, she’d confronted her father again, but he insisted she go out with Farley. Since she loved her father, she decided to truly try. Still it stung. Since he had married for love, she had always assumed he would encourage her to also. They were going to a movie house. She’d heard them called “petting pantries,” and she hoped he wouldn’t try anything tawdry with her. Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans, hailed by the Times as a masterpiece, was playing.
Farley stopped to inspect the front of his car, took a handkerchief from the pocket of his three-piece suit, and rubbed a spot on the Lincoln’s hood. He nodded his head and put the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Let’s go.”
He jumped in, revved the motor, and maneuvered the car away from the curb.
“Watch out!” a man yelled as a double-decker bus swerved at the last second, missing them by an inch.
Clair put her hands on the dashboard. “Careful!”
Farley laughed, racing the car down the street into dense traffic. He honked the shiny bulb horn at a horse-drawn carriage. A-oo-gah!
He patted the steering wheel and started to brag about every little detail of his town car. “Yes, this baby cost me $4,800. Worth every penny. With aluminum pistons, it’s guaranteed to go at least seventy miles per hour.”
“Keep your eyes on the road!” Clair’s heart raced faster than the car.
He navigated between other automobiles, passing a policeman on a motorbike and another horse-drawn carriage.
He continued, “On our honeymoon, we’ll take this for a spin in the country and test that guarantee.”
“Our what?”
He eyed her. “Our honeymoon. Your father has agreed we’ll be married this spring.”
How could he make such plans behind her back? “But I haven’t agreed—you never even asked me.”
“Sorry.” He glanced at her. “Wanna get married?” He put his hand on her knee.
She pulled her leg away. “No.”
He kept right on blathering. “The 384-cubic-inch flathead V8 engine . . .”
Yes, like your own flat head. She examined him more closely. Actually, his head did look flat, even on all four sides, like a square, a blockhead, an ignoramus. Except for his god-awful cowlick. She had an urge to reach over and tamp it down but didn’t want to get grease on her gloves.
The Times Square traffic was thick, but Farley found a parking space, and they rushed into the movie palace. They squeezed into their seats right before the lights went down. The theater smelled of body odor and cheap cigars. She pulled her rose water–spritzed hankie from her clutch and held it to her nose.
A newsreel showed the invention of bumpers on the front of cars to decrease injuries and fatalities from accidents. First, they threw a dummy in front of a moving car, and then a man jumped in front of a moving truck. Both times the bodies glided along gently. Farley could sure use one of those on the front of his car.
He put his paw on her knee, but she pushed it away. Her mind went back to his words: her father had agreed they’d marry in the spring. She needed to convince him otherwise.
The movie’s title scrolled across the screen. Though talkies were becoming popular, this was a silent film—but instead of an orchestra, synchronized music emanated from speakers, a nice touch. The film flickered on. George O’Brien. She had seen him in The Silver Treasure and Paid to Love.
Farley groped for her fingers, and momentarily she let him hold on. His rough skin reminded her of a wet potato and she let go, rubbing the moisture on her hankie. Farley frowned and slumped with crossed arms.
As O’Brien rowed Janet Gaynor out onto the lake, Clair became captivated by the movie, and she wondered if he would really kill his wife. Later in the film, grief-stricken over what he had almost done to her, he asked for her forgiveness and plied her with flowers and gifts. What wonderful acting! Their bodies close, O’Brien gazed at Gaynor as if he truly loved her. Her large expressive eyes reminded Clair of Winnie.
Could her friend really have it? Clair wished she was with Winnie instead of Farley and wondered what was happening at Rudy’s. Clair bet the joint was jumping.
On the sidewalk after the movie, Farley suggested they go out for a bite to eat.
She yawned. “I’m not hungry, and besides, I’m tired.”
“We can sit for a while in the parlor.”
That’s the last thing she wanted to do.
“Mr. F!” a large man called, hurrying toward them.
Farley glanced at the man, took her arm, and rushed her toward his car. He turned on the motor and screeched away from the curb.
“Please try to drive slowly. Who was that?” she asked.
“No one.” He shook his head with a frown.
&
nbsp; “No one?”
“I mean, no one I want to talk to tonight.” He turned and looked behind him.
“You sure?”
“Yes.” In silence for once, he drove along with the traffic.
“Have you ever been to a speakeasy?” She smiled at him.
“Clair!” He looked shocked. “Of course not. What would your father say if he knew you asked me that?” Farley snorted a laugh.
“He might not mind if I went with you.”
“Clair.” He shook his head. “Perhaps you aren’t the girl I thought you were.”
She grinned at him.
“Are you pulling my leg?”
“Of course.” What a fuddy-duddy.
He sped up his pace. This time, she closed her eyes and pretended to be on a roller coaster. At the hotel, he walked her up to the suite.
“Good night.” She stood with her back to the closed door.
“You’re so pretty.” His eyes scanned sideways, and he put his hand on her arm.
She gently pushed it away.
“May I come in?”
“We might wake Father,” she whispered. “You’d better go home.”
He closed his eyes and leaned toward her for a kiss. She considered it for a very brief moment. That way, she could tell her father she’d tried. Plus, she’d never been kissed before, and she was curious. She studied his straggly, untrimmed mustache, clotted with wax, and her stomach roiled. She leaned back and pushed him away. He stopped, confused, and she quickly said good night and slipped inside.
Her first kiss should be something special. To make that happen, she might need to push Farley away several more times. She would never be able to kiss him. But would he always take no for an answer?
21
The ghastly dates with Farley and evenings in the suite continued for weeks. His boorish nature still gnawed at her craw. He had fallen asleep and snored loudly at the philharmonic, he ogled passing women, and, night after night, at the end of the evening he tried to kiss her, but she kept pushing him away.
Tonight she bid Farley and her father adieu as they left for the Odd Fellows meeting. Then she ran to the window and used her opera glasses to watch them climb into the Lincoln. Finally, an evening alone! She turned the radio dial until she found some jazz. “Yes Sir, That’s My Baby,” one of her favorites, came on. Giving in to wild abandon, she did the Charleston, keeping an eye on the door in case the men returned for some unexplained reason.
For two months Clair had resisted her craving for Rudy’s, but as she danced, her desire began to overpower her. Clair looked at the clock on the mantel. The men wouldn’t be back for hours. Did she dare escape and go to Rudy’s? No, she couldn’t. Or maybe she could, if she promised to behave—no hooch or even dancing. She would only listen, tap her feet, and observe the others. Winnie could give her some advice about Farley, too.
Clair rushed to her dressing room. Feet bare on the black-and-white tiles, she slipped on her pale-pink gown and examined her body in the full-length mirror. She sighed and her shoulders sagged.
The debutante dress made her look dowdy, and her copper-colored hair was too full. She had to look more in vogue. Foraging in her jewelry box, she pulled out her pearls and placed them around her neck.
She paused for another look and sighed again.
Replacing the pearls in the jewelry box, she picked out two large brooches. Looking in the mirror, she gathered a handful of material at each hip and pinned up the sides. She hoped her legs didn’t still look like the toothpicks the kids at church had teased her about.
Winnie’s turban had been so striking. Clair wound her hair as tightly as she could and donned one herself. Instead of a feather, she attached her opal pin to it for a little sparkle. Because of her thick hair, the turban poofed up in a tall mound, looking very dramatic.
Her father had never allowed her to wear makeup, but she had a stash hidden, and when he was at work she sometimes applied some and made faces at herself in the mirror. She considered putting on a little lipstick, but that would be going too far.
Throwing on her coat with the fur-shawl collar, she stealthily hurried out the back of the hotel through the kitchen.
When the cab pulled up to the speakeasy, it looked dark and the block was empty. Rudy’s might not even be open.
“Let’s sit here for a moment,” she told the driver.
A few minutes later a limo arrived, and a couple climbed out, went down the steps, and entered the building.
Clair paid the cabbie and marched down the steps herself, hoping the password hadn’t been changed. “Moody Rudy,” she said when the slit opened. The door swung ajar and she slid inside. The smoky place was packed to the gills, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. The band could be heard over the sound of laughter and voices.
“Hey, gal pal—what a surprise! Long time no see.” Rudy handed her coat to the doorman, took Clair’s arm, and led her to Winnie’s table next to the crowded dance floor. “Be right back with your drink.”
“No booze,” she called after him, and put her hand on Winnie’s shoulder. “Am I ever happy to see you.”
Winnie jumped up, smiled brightly, and yelled into Clair’s ear. “Hiya, toots! Afraid you’d dropped off the ends of the earth.” She tugged on Clair’s turban. “This is spiffy, but it could use a few feathers. How was the ball? Bet you looked like a movie star.” Winnie wiggled her hips.
Clair shook her head. It felt great the way the turban kept her hair in place. “Not really, but I did dance a lot.”
“I’m sure you did.” Winnie sat and pulled Clair down next to her. Clair frowned. “I’m glad to see you. I could sure use someone to talk to.”
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s this fellow my father is encouraging me to marry, but I can’t stand him.”
“Why not?”
“He’s old and stinky, and talks a blue streak.”
Winnie scrunched up her nose. “Does he have money?”
“I suppose so. He brags about all the things he buys.”
“Could you fall for him over time?”
Clair removed her gloves. “No!”
“Sounds like a bluenose, a killjoy. Follow your heart. If you don’t care for him, don’t take him.” Winnie shimmied her shoulders as the feathers on her hat shook.
Good advice. Clair never wanted to take Farley anywhere. “They’re planning a spring wedding for us. How do I get out of it?”
“Play it cool. That’s ages away. Maybe he’ll disappear over time.”
“I doubt that.” It wouldn’t be that easy. “Why is it so packed tonight?”
“Got a new performer. She’s supposedly quite the vamp.”
Clair noticed a man in a pompadour staring at her from across the dance floor. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him. Beatrice Beach Bernard rested her arm on his. Clair hadn’t seen Bea since the ball and barely recognized her. She wore plenty of makeup; her hair had been bobbed and bleached blonde. A short yellow dress clung to her body like a lemon rind.
Bea’s parents probably had no idea Bea was here, either. The man leaned over, said something to her, and they both laughed. Bea waved at Clair and pulled him across the dance floor toward her.
“Hi, Clairy!” Bea squealed, her voice high-pitched, and leaned down to hug Clair. Clair was taken aback; they’d never been close friends.
“I see you two know each other.” Winnie giggled. “And who is this looker?”
“Andre, Andre LeRue.” The man straightened the scarlet ascot at his neck.
It was that darned artist, the one who had painted the horrendous portrait! He must be wearing one of those Hollywood toupees advertised in the magazines. At least he had shaved off that atrocious mustache. She hadn’t seen him either since the night of her ball, and she said a grateful prayer to her father and Aunt June for saving her from humiliation that night.
“Word out is that you’re a genius,” Winnie gushed.
Mr. LeRue nodded. “I’ve heard that word bandied about. Hello, Miss Devereaux.”
“You’ve met?” Winnie smiled.
“Ooh, Clair! Andre is so mad at you.” Bea’s voice grated on Clair.
“Yes, if it wasn’t for you, I’d be famous by now.”
Bea howled a laugh, her overbite even more pronounced with all that lipstick on. “You are so funny, Andre!”
Clair could feel her face turning as red as his ascot. Thanks goodness the lights were low.
Mr. LeRue studied her turban. “Trying to be a flapper? I don’t think you’re the type.”
A rock sat in the middle of Clair’s chest.
“Come on, Bea, let’s dance.” Without a goodbye, LeRue pulled Beatrice away and onto the dance floor.
Winnie put her arm through Clair’s. “Don’t worry, honey, you’ll be fine. They’re just teasing you.”
Rudy joined them with their drinks.
“Do you know Mr. LeRue?” Clair asked Rudy, and nodded her head in the artist’s direction as he did the Black Bottom with Beatrice.
“Who?” Rudy shrugged. “Oh, him. He’s looking for a job.”
“Doing what?”
“I plan to step it up and move to a real theater. He says he can do the costume and set design.”
Oh, geez! He’d probably put the women in shredded frocks, and the sets would be painted in colors that clashed. “Are you going to hire him?”
“I might. He’s a nice enough guy, even though he’s a little fruity,” Rudy chortled.
Clair frowned. She would be too embarrassed to tell them the whole tawdry tale of the painting. From across the floor, Mr. LeRue stared at her with a sly grin. Clair’s pulse beat in her ears like a kettledrum. Mr. LeRue had been so angry, he might tell her father about her being here just for spite.
“I’d better go.” Clair started to stand.
Winnie grabbed her arm. “But you just got here.”
“You can’t miss the floor show.” Rudy pushed her drink toward her.
The band started playing an upbeat version of “Someone to Watch Over Me.” Winnie jumped up and grabbed Clair’s hand.
