Glitter and Gold (The Canary Club Novels Book 1)

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  Seeing us approach, Dutch whispers something to the baby vamp—she can’t be much older than me!—and the girl wanders toward the bar, her red curls bouncing with each step.

  “Dutch,” JD begins, pulling me up behind him. “I need to talk to you for a minute. Privately.”

  Dutch nods once and jerks his head toward the wall near the kitchen, where he tips a wall lamp and the door to the private office slides open. A secret place inside a secret place.

  I’ve been in this room only once, during a tour of the place JD gave me after renovations last year. But it was bare and empty then. Now it’s a stunning formal den. Roomy, with big leather chairs and an ice bar hidden inside an antique globe, there are bookshelves from the floor to the tin tile ceiling, each lined with well-worn leather bound editions which Dutch has probably never even cracked open. The room itself is more round than square, almost octagonal, the chairs circling a short wooden table which reminds me of a miniature version of King Arthur’s mythical seat of power right, down to the tiny swords inlaid in the wood. On the only wall not covered by built in oak shelves, a large red and gold tapestry hangs with a formal coat of arms embroidered into the fabric.

  Maybe he’d read at least one of those books after all.

  He stares at me for only a moment, his gaze then sliding back to JD with a questioning glance. I shouldn’t be here, not if they were talking business, the glance says. But JD nods once, firmly, and his father looks away. Pouring himself a drink, Dutch jerks his head, motioning for us to sit.

  “What brings you lovebirds out tonight?” he asks, his back toward us.

  I don’t have to see his face, I can hear the frown in his voice.

  JD takes a seat in one of the high-backed leather chairs and pulls me onto his lap. For a heartbeat, it feels odd, as if he’s hiding behind me. Only when I look down at his face to I understand the gesture. We’re presenting a united front. He’s telling his father, without words, that we are one from this point out.

  “I thought you should know, I’ve asked this choice piece of calico to be my wife,” JD answers, kissing my bare shoulder.

  Dutch turns, looking us over in a way that makes the tiny hairs at the base of my neck rise uncomfortably. “Is that so?”

  JD nods. And unsure what else to do, I hold out my hand, displaying my new ring.

  He sits, hesitating for a moment before saying more. His shoulders are stiff, his chin high, and he’s staring at me from beneath his nose. JD and I had been together almost a year before he even introduced me to his father formally. The look he gave me that day had me jumping at shadows for the next week. This look, this look gives me goosebumps down to the soles of my feet. The fact that his cheeks are rosy and his lips upturned in a dry smile only make it worse.

  “She pregnant?” he asks finally.

  I feel my eyes widen at the accusation and the air rushes from my chest in one quick burst. “No, of course not,” I manage when I finally regain myself.

  “Not yet,” JD says with a wink, which Dutch does not return. There’s a chill in the air between them, and it breaks out across my skin like ice. JD is smiling, the kind of smile you plaster on your face when you’re trying to sell someone something you know they don’t want.

  The thought draws me up short. We’ve never talked about children, and truthfully, the possibility never crossed my mind. I’m careful—so very careful—to avoid the prospect. But of course he would want children eventually. What man wouldn’t? I force myself to swallow past the dry lump in my throat.

  Finally, Dutch waves his hand, “Well, I suppose congratulations are in order then.”

  JD nods, a long, slow exhale telling me he’s relieved by the response. Dutch is a temperamental man on a good day, a dangerously unpredictable one the rest of the week.

  “Well, I suppose I’ll need to meet your parents, June. Start going over the financial arrangements.”

  “My parents are dead,” I say flatly, the last of the excitement leeching from my body. “It’s just me.”

  He puckers his lips, clearly disappointed. “So I suppose this whole thing will be on my dime then?”

  JD’s muscles tense, jerking forward, nearly dumping me off his lap, “Pop.”

  His tone is threatening, but more than that, I’ve never heard him refer to Dutch by anything other than his first name. My breath catches and I have to force myself to hide my surprise.

  “We could always elope,” I offer, half to sound helpful, half as a threat. If we elope, not only will people assume I’m knocked up, but they’ll be very curious why a man of Dutch’s resources would allow his only son to get hitched in such poor fashion. If there’s one thing Dutch can’t stand, it’s being looked down upon. No matter how tight things get, JD and June are obligated to continue to spend freely, to wear the latest fashions, to drive the shiniest cars, to drink the best hooch. You’re only as successful as you appear, Dutch says. That might actually be the family motto. The crest is just a dollar sign.

  Dutch scratches his chin, considering my words. When he speaks, its with a forced grin, his tone light but direct. “Of course not, of course not. Why don’t you and Masie get together and start figuring out details. Date, venue, and then bring me your proposal. I’ll run everything by my accountant and we will see what we can do.”

  I nod, feeling the tension begin to melt from my arms and legs. If Dutch wants to treat this wedding as a business, I can handle that. He’s always willing to participate more in business affairs anyway.

  “Good, now, if you’ll excuse us, dear, we have a few matters to discuss,” he days, dismissing me.

  “See you at the penthouse later?” JD asks, his voice low as he pats my knees.

  I frown, “I should go back to my place tonight. I need to go over a few things, then I’ll meet with Masie in the morning. I’ll meet you for dinner tomorrow?”

  The disappointment is plain on his face, but he releases me with a quick peck on the temple.

  “Have Albert give you a ride,” he calls after me as I head for the door. “I don’t like you taking the train at this hour.”

  Plastering on a smile I blow him a kiss and wave to Dutch before escaping back into the heart of the club. Masie’s still on stage, her silvery beaded flapper dress shimmering as she moves, this time to a quicker tune. I wave toward her and she winks, continuing to belt.

  Making my way to the door, I grab my fur shrug and gloves and spill out onto the street, walking around the corner where Dutch and JD’s drivers wait. Albert and another man sit on overturned crates, playing cards in the streetlight.

  “Albert, would you me a darling and give me a ride home?” I ask.

  “To Jersey?”

  I nod.

  Sighing, he stands, tossing his cards and a crumpled dollar onto the crate. “Next time, Henry. Next time.”

  Walking over to the blue coupe, he opens the door and I slide inside. It’s a long drive home and I spend the entire trip fiddling with my long, ruby and gold chain necklace, wondering how I’m going to get myself out of this particular pickle.

  The decrepit row house is quiet when I open the front door, all the lights are off except for a single warm glow at the top of the narrow stairs. This was my grandmother’s house, and my mother’s after that. My only inheritance. A dry rotted row house with a leaky roof and a coal furnace that only warms the bottom floors. It’s a far cry from JD’s penthouse apartment where I normally spend the night, and I immediately regret my decision to come home.

  The old oak floor creaks as I glide across it, tossing my fur, hat, and gloves on the table by the door. I slip off my shoes, stuffing them under one arm and scurrying up the stairs as quietly as possible, avoiding the squeaky spots in the third step and the hole in the top one where a mouse had chewed its way through. The plaster walls are chipped and the old floral wallpaper peels at the corners. A few old pewter and brass frames hang from the walls. The largest is my diploma, and the light glints off the glass, drawing my eyes
towards it. My graduation from the Nightingale-Bamford School was my single greatest achievement to date. A testament to my ability to adapt, to blend in to any situation or social class. Reaching out I adjust the slightly askew frame to center, taking a deep breath. The air is chilly, barely warmer than outdoors. The windows are old and allow for terrible drafts up here. I shiver, tiptoeing toward my bedroom door.

  “You’re home late,” Mama calls, making me cringe. Turning toward the light I abandon my attempt at stealth and push her bedroom door open. She’s sitting at her roll-top desk, as usual, hunched over a pair of cotton stockings she’s mending for the hundredth time. Beside her the lamp light flickers and she has to flick the brass base with one finger to get it to stop.

  “You out with that boy again?”

  Slipping the ring free of my finger before she can see it, I palm it and hide it behind my back, leaning in the door frame. “He’s not just some boy, mama. He’s…special.”

  She looks up, her dark hair pulled in a tight bun at the back of her neck. It has streaks of grey now, more every time I see her it seems. Pushing the half-moon glasses up her nose, she scoffs. “You need to be worried less about partying your nights away with some boy and more about finding a job.”

  It’s the same old argument. She hadn’t liked my job at the dance club, but it was honest work, at least in her mind. Of course, she’d never had to witness it first hand, never had to see me pretend not to shudder at each inappropriate touch, at each toothless leer. She would never know about the bills, folded and stuffed down my blouse just so some joe could cop a feel, or the times married men had come in, begging me to become their mistress. To her, I was dancing, nothing more.

  And I’d never confess to anything else.

  “JD takes good care of me, mama. I don’t need a job.”

  She pulls the glasses off her face, pointing them at me, “Can’t trust no man to take care of you forever, Junebug. Only person you can rely on in this world is you.”

  Crossing into the room I kiss her on the cheek, “And you.”

  “I ain’t gonna be around forever,” she sighs, rubbing her eyes against the again flickering light. “June, how many times I gotta tell you? Only thing a man’s gonna give you is a swollen belly and a trunk fulla problems.” The bitterness in her voice is unmistakable. I’d heard her tell the story since I was old enough to start turning boys heads. How my father, a wealthy white banker from the city had romanced, seduced, and eventually left her—both of us—after my birth. He’d sent money for a few years, until he went off to the war never to set foot on American soil ever again. She never let me forget, never let me underestimate the dangers of romance with people above my station.

  “Just because daddy left you doesn’t mean JD will leave me. He loves me mama, he’s crazy about me in fact,” I hesitate before saying the rest. “He’s gonna marry me, mama. I know he is.”

  I watch the emotions play across her face, first anger, then grief. Talk of my father is a sore spot, even after all these years. What self-respecting white man would marry a half-negro, after all? Even one he loved? His monthly allowance carefully squirreled away had allowed me to pay for school, his name on a phony birth certificate gave me access, his pale skin gave me acceptance. But all these things came at a terrible cost to her, one she never let me forget.

  “Is that so?” she scoffs. “And how’s he gonna feel when he finds out the truth about you? You’ve gotta have your birth certificate in to get the license application now—the forgery won’t do you any good, they’ll pull the real one direct from the records office. They gotta check the little boxes that ask where you were born and what color skin you have. It isn’t like when your grandmama got married and all you needed was a preacher. There’s laws now, papers to be filed and approved. One look at your birth certificate and there’s not a minister alive who’ll do the deed, no matter how much coin your boy throws his way. And what do you think will happen when he finds out the truth? Relationships can’t be built on lies, June bug.”

  When she found herself not a wife and not a widow but with a child on the way, mama was looked at as lower than dirt by everyone, the hospital staff, her own family, even strangers on the street. When I came along, every bit as pale skinned as my daddy, people assumed she was my black nurse, and after a while, she just let them believe that. It was easier, I think, avoiding the silently judgmental stares and the rude whispers behind her back.

  “I’ll…” I struggle. Truthfully, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I’ll figure something out. You did.”

  She snorts, “Don’t go using my mistakes as a guide book for happiness. You can see where they’ve gotten me.”

  Don’t I know it. Mama works nights at the upholstery warehouse, sewing buttons on chairs, and during the day as a maid for the wife of a fancy, uptown lawyer, and his snotty wife and spoiled kids. For a while after graduation I helped her there, cleaning the sinks and scrubbing floors, wiping and mending and dusting until my fingers ached. A good job, she assured me in my misery. The problem was that thanks to her lies and my privileged white friends, I’d gotten a taste of what the other side had, and I wanted more.

  I wanted it all.

  One day when I’d been tasked to clean the bedroom of the youngest daughter, only twelve at the time, I pocketed a diamond and ruby brooch that the child had carelessly lost under her bed. What must it be like, to have so much that you could just toss something like that away? I’d been sure the girl would never miss it, she had so many fancy things. But she did, and after screaming to her mother about it, I was let go. Mama was barely able to keep her own job after that, since she’d vouched for me, and they relented only because no one knew we were relations. I was June West, after all. Not a Watkins like her. I can’t say I’m sorry, truly even now I’m far from it. I’d spent four years in boarding school taking ski holidays and attending dazzling socials with the other girls and their families. As far as anyone was concerned, I was an orphan, both parents gone with only my family maid to look after me. And so they treated me as one of their own, as a girl who’d grown up in glittering wealth rather than crushing poverty.

  I’ll never forget those times, because it was only in those times that I felt like I belonged. Like I was important.

  When I met JD, well, everything fell into place for me. The parties, the gifts, the influence and the affluence. I knew immediately, that this is what my life is supposed to be. It didn’t hurt that he’s tall, dark, and handsome, or that he’s probably the kindest person I’ve ever known. He’s clever, full of hope, and willing to do anything to help a fella out. Basically, the complete opposite of his father who has managed to look right through me since the first time we met. I can’t help but feel a little smug about that now.

  I may have been born the bastard child of a negro woman, but I would die the respected wife of one of the most powerful men in the city.

  “Then why did you do it?” I demand, unable to keep my tongue any longer. “Why did you lie and force me to lie? Why send me to that fancy school if it wasn’t to better myself? If you didn’t want better for me?”

  She sets down her sewing and turns her body toward me fully. “I wanted you to get a good education, the kind of education I could never have hoped for, June. Yes, you’re right, I want more for you then the life of a bastard negro. But I wanted you to earn those better things with your mind, with your own two hands, not lean on some fella to do it for you. You could go to college, learn a trade, anything you set your mind two. Why are you so convinced that this boy is the answer to all your problems?”

  I blink, momentarily transfixed by the desperation in her eyes. “Because I love him, mama. He’s not just a means to an end, not just some sugar daddy to pay for my jewelry. I love him so much it makes it hard to breathe sometimes. And if you could see how he treats me, how well he loves me back, you’d understand.”

  She frowns, turning away again and resuming her work. “If you really believed that, y
ou’d tell him the truth.”

  I stare at her for a long moment, trying to come up with some clever comeback or some witticism to make her understand. But there’s nothing. She’s been too burned by what she thought was love that it’s hardened her to even the possibility of it. Saying nothing else I leave, making my way to my bedroom, throwing myself across the lumpy old mattress. JD offered to put me up in my own apartment in the city once, it was fairly common for girlfriends and mistresses to be kept nearby like some sort of pet. I’d refused, partly out of disgust at the idea of being treated like a commodity, but mostly out of guilt. Moving out would mean leaving mama for good and while part of me is eager to put the last of this life behind me, another part isn’t quite ready to let her go. So I spend a few nights a week at the penthouse and a few here. Of course, once we’re married we’ll want our own place anyway. Much as I love Masie, sharing the family penthouse with JD’s father and sister does not sound like how I want to kick off my wedded bliss.

  I sigh. The wedding. Would she have to miss it? Would she even want to attend? Maybe I can get her a position with the staff, so she can at least be there on the big day. My mind spins, my stomach rolling. Am I really going to force my mother to watch the wedding of her only child from the crack in a kitchen door?

  But then, she’d surely understand. It was her, afterall, who began the charade. She’d been all too willing to use my light skin and my father’s name to try to make a better life for me. Isn’t this exactly what she always wanted for me?

  Grabbing the framed photograph of JD and I from my bedside table, I trace his face with my fingertip. Some small, cowardly voice in the back of my mind wonders if mama is right, though. How will he react when I tell him there’s a chance our children might be born with my mother’s ebony skin? What if I don’t tell him the truth? Maybe we never have children, maybe that would be alright, though I know he wants them desperately. Maybe I could be enough for him?