Can't Buy Me Love

by Abigail Drake

  Just before they turned into the bar, Tillie noticed Matilda—the Algonquin’s gray-and-white resident feline—sitting beside a dark wood column and looking every bit as elegant as the people stopping to pet her. Tillie smiled at the green-eyed cat, vowing to visit with her before the night was over.

  “Here you are, my dear.” Oren swung open the door to the bar before dramatically sweeping his arm before him. “Your future awaits.”

  The small room consisted of a dark-wood bar and striking blue-vinyl booths. Slender women dressed in sheath dresses traipsed past men in handsome suits of various grays and blues. The whole smoke-drenched scene was so glamorous and dreamy, Tillie had to pinch her arm to be sure it was truly happening.

  “You can go in,” Oren whispered into her ear. She jumped, surprised by his breath tickling her neck. Suddenly, the noise from the party—a combination of conversations, uproarious laughter, and lively music—filled her ears and everything came into focus.

  Oren took her hand. “You’re about to thank me.”

  “For what?”

  Rather than answering, he flashed a cocky, off-kilter smile and led her to the end of the bar.

  As they approached, Tillie recognized George Albert—the man behind Me and Juliet and the greatest musical comedy director in the business. She took in a quick breath, understanding what Oren’s plan was.

  “Hello, George.” At Oren’s introduction, the man excused himself from the conversation with the others—backstage men Tillie didn’t recognize—and turned around. “I’d like you to meet Tillie Parker.”

  George tipped his chin before bringing a glass to his lips. “How are you enjoying the party, Miss Parker?”

  “I’m enjoying it very much. In fact, I’m enjoying it almost as much as I enjoyed the performance this evening.” Tillie grinned, pleased with her tenacity.

  George lifted his glass, as if in a toast, to Oren. “I like this girl, Cooper.”

  “Can you keep an eye on her for me while I get drinks?” He took a step back and dropped a hand on each of her shoulders. Tillie would have considered the gesture possessive, but—after their chat in the car—she was certain Oren saw her merely as a protégé, an up-and-comer from his hometown he could take under his wing. “The bar is packed and I don’t want to lose her in the crowd.”

  “I can see why you wouldn’t.” George winked at Tillie, then patted the seat beside him. “Join us, Miss Parker. I’d like to hear more of your thoughts on my play.”

  As Oren walked away, Tillie’s body tingled with the same anticipatory energy it always did before she took the stage. She sat beside George, perched on the edge of the blue vinyl bench. Her mother had always told her a lady didn’t let her back touch her chair.

  “Mr. Albert, thank you for asking to me to join you.”

  “You’ve caught the eye of Oren Cooper, so there must be something special about you.” He pulled a cigarette case from his gray suit jacket and flipped it open. “He’s been shooing women away ever since he arrived in New York, many of my cast members included.”

  “We’re old friends.” Tillie fought to keep from glimpsing at Oren. “We ran into each other yesterday, and he invited me tonight. It’s been wonderful catching up.”

  “And what do you do, Miss Parker?” His appraising gaze raked over her as he lit a cigarette. “Please tell me you’re an actress. Your look like you were born to be a star.”

  “I sing and dance, too.”

  He held out his cigarette case to offer her one.

  Unable to help herself, Tillie glanced at Oren and smiled. “No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The bartender stopped taking orders when he noticed Oren approach. Sometimes getting recognized had its benefits. Lately, Oren had taken to going around with the brim of his hat pulled low and the collar of his coat hiked up. Most days he had a private driver transport him to the theatre and his social appointments. There was a time at the beginning of his career when he enjoyed getting stopped by fans and members of the press. The novelty had quickly worn off, though. The only time in recent memory he’d been grateful for his recognizable face was when he’d run into Tillie at Centerstage.

  “I’d like a glass of champagne and a whiskey sour.” With two fingers, he waved the bartender to lean closer. When the other man complied, Oren inconspicuously slipped him a five-dollar bill. “Dress a ginger ale up like a whiskey sour. Orange, cherry, the works.”

  The bartender tucked the money into his pocket and nodded. “A champagne and a whiskey sour, coming right up.”

  Oren leaned on the bar and looked back to Tillie. He’d nearly stumbled earlier when he first saw her in that dress. The vibrant red satin brought out the creaminess of her pale complexion, stunning him with her flawlessness. Her blonde hair had been swept off her face to reveal the round cheekbones, upturned nose, and bow-shaped lips of a starlet.

  Oren scrubbed a hand over his face and turned back to the bar. God, he wanted her. But bringing her up to his room would be a bad idea. All her bright-eyed optimism would be wasted for a frivolous one-night affair. If he could give her more, he would. He knew he would. But not now. Not when he felt so broken.

  The bartender reappeared with two glasses. “Your drinks, Mr. Cooper.”

  Oren left a tip on the bar, picked up the glasses, and walked over to join Tillie and George.

  He offered Tillie the long-stemmed glass as he sat. “I took a guess and ordered champagne. How did I do?”

  She took it from him and had a sip. “It’s perfect. I wouldn’t be able to finish anything stronger than this.”

  George lifted his glass and clanked it with hers. “Aren’t you a breath of fresh air?”

  Coyly, Tillie tucked her chin and took another small sip. “You’re too kind.”

  “While you were gone, we uncovered an interesting coincidence.” George puffed on his cigarette and looked to Oren. “Tillie lives on the same street Bonnie did when she was first starting out. If memory serves me correctly, it may even have been the same building.”

  Bonnie Walton was George’s former muse and ex-fiancé. She’d left him four years ago when Hollywood beckoned. If the rumors were to be believed, George had a deep running hatred for stage stars who defected to California because of it. At first, he’d refused to do Me and Juliet when Oren’s name was attached to the project. Luckily, after a pleasant phone conversation with Oren, who’d talked about how excited he was to work with the talented director, George had changed his mind.

  Oren spun his glass on the table, feeling less compelled to drink the contents than he would be if he’d ordered whiskey. “Isn’t that something?”

  Laugh lines streaked George’s face. “It’s the word from the bird.”

  Tillie smiled politely, the champagne glass stem pinched between her delicate fingers. She looked around the room as George took a drag on his weed, seemingly in awe of it all.

  As he watched, Oren realized how in awe he was of her.

  “Tillie, will you sing with me?” He’d asked the question before he’d fully thought it through.

  She gasped. “Right now?”

  He’d returned to New York looking for inspiration. And there it was, sitting across from him like a pretty package, all tied up in a red bow.

  “Of course.” Oren motioned to unoccupied upright piano at the other end of the bar. “No one’s sang yet, and someone always does. Let’s start things off.”

  “I’m—I’m not prepared,” she said in a scratchy voice.

  Oren realized the risk involved in asking her to perform in front of his peers without having heard her sing before, but felt confidant anyway. The girl had landed a few small roles, and she claimed to have extensive training. Plus, if he remembered the Parkers correctly, they were a reasonable, straight-laced family. They wouldn’t encourage their only daughter to pursue a career in show business if they didn’t think she had the talent to succeed.

  “I’d love to hear wha
t you can do,” George said loudly before taking a swig of his drink. “There’s no better place for a young hopeful like yourself to showcase her talents. The bar is filled with Broadway-types,” he leaned in closer and added, “and most of them are more easily impressed when they’re blitzed.”

  Tillie took a healthy gulp of her champagne and then another. She gripped the long-stemmed glass less delicately than before and straightened her shoulders.

  “Can I pick the song?”

  One corner of Oren’s mouth curled. “Of course.”

  Tillie flashed a confidant smile at George. “Will you save my seat for me?”

  He blew a plume of smoke into the cloud hanging over the room. “Darling, if you’re any good, so many men will be trying to buy you a drink you’ll never make it all the way back over here.”

  By the time they’d crossed the room to the piano, Tillie had drained her champagne glass. For his part, Oren’s hands shook as he adjusted his cuffs. He hadn’t felt this keyed up before a performance since his first run in a starring role...and it was intoxicating. “So, what are we singing?”

  “‘If I Loved You’ from Carousel.” Tillie looked at him over her shoulder. “Will that work for you?”

  Oren laughed as he straightened his tie. “Sweetheart, I could sing the phone book and make it sound like another Rodgers and Hammerstein original.”

  “Perfect.” Tillie smoothed her hands over the front of her dress. Her gaze darted over the room as she assessed the crowd. “It’s settled then.”

  “Nervous?”

  Tillie blew out a heavy breath the ruffled the curled ends of her hair. “A little.”

  “It would be strange if you weren’t.” Oren placed a hand on her shoulder. “You can do this, right? You should tell me now if you can’t.” He cocked his head toward the exit. “You can still slip out before anyone notices. I’ll tell them you got sick or that your roommate needed you, whatever you’d like.”

  The corners of her mouth curled. “There’s no need.”

  A man in a dark blue suit settled at the piano. Oren had never seen him before, and he assumed George found him after combing the guests for a pianist.

  “What’s it gonna be?” the man asked as he played a few trial chords. The resonating sound drew the everyone’s attention. Conversations dropped to a murmur, so much that ice could be heard clinking inside of drink glasses.

  Oren parted his lips to respond, but Tillie beat him to it.

  “‘If I Loved You’.”

  Tillie turned into the corner, her shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. When a few moments passed and she didn’t turn back around, Oren went to stand alongside her. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were parted. He didn’t want to disturb her, but the crowd was expecting a song.

  He touched her arm and she jumped.

  “You scared me.” Tillie pressed her hand to her heart, then smiled. “I was repeating a little mantra in my head that I usually say before a performance.”

  “What is it?” Oren asked.

  “I’m the best performer to ever come out of Ridgewood, New Jersey. Even better than Oren Cooper.”

  With that, she took his drink from his hand and downed the contents. Her eyes widened as she swallowed. Before she could say anything about the ginger ale, Oren pressed a finger to his lips then nodded at the pianist.

  The opening notes were met with hoots and hollers from the crowd. With no choice but to proceed, Tillie rested her hand on the corner of the piano and swayed to the music.

  When she sang, Oren felt his heart in his chest for the first time. Sure, he’d felt his heart beating before, but this was different. He could feel it swell with a longing so acute he finally understood how his female fans must feel.

  Humbled, he moved to stand beside Tillie. The corners of her eyes crinkled with a smile when she noticed. She so transfixed him, he nearly missed his cue.

  As the song rolled on, their voices blended to create harmonies that at times, stunned the crowd into silence and at others, brought them to their feet. Near the end of the song, Oren reached for Tillie’s hand. She turned to him as their fingers made contact. Their gazes met, and the rest of the room went dark. Tillie was all Oren could see, all he could hear. She led him through the rest of the song until the piano faded into quiet.

  Applause sounded, eradicating the spell Oren had been under. He slipped away as Tillie baked in the crowd’s adoration. Several people slapped him on the back and shared their congratulations as he pushed past, ducking his head to get out as quickly as he could.

  He looked back at the scene before he left. Tillie beamed as she shook hands with one person after another, a crowd gathering around her.

  It was too much for him. Tillie was too much for him. She had everything—talent, beauty, drive—and she had it in abundance.

  He knew she’d be better off without him.

  ***

  After the last note sounded from the piano, Tillie’s world exploded with white light. Cheers and applause rang out, filling the tiny room with an uproar of noise. She closed her eyes and basked in the moment. Not only had she flawlessly sang in front so many important people in the Theatre District, but she’d done so with Oren at her side. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t invited her to the party and asked her to sing with him.

  When she opened her eyes, Oren wasn’t there. Suspecting he’d been pulled into the crowd by a throng of admirers, she pressed to her toes and peered around. She caught him bolting though the door before the applause for their duet had ended.

  Feeling the excitement whoosh out of her like a deflating balloon, Tillie pressed a hand to her stomach. What had happened? Had she done something wrong? She’d thought they’d shared something special during that song—a connection unlike one she’d ever shared with anyone else.

  She considered going after him, but the idea vanished as soon as the chants for an encore started. A simple, career-minded girl like her with no intention of jumping into his bed for a one-time romp couldn’t hold his attention all night. She should have known that.

  She turned to the pianist. “‘Many a New Day’ from Oklahoma!”

  He nodded then began to play the opening chords. The room got louder, its occupants happy to indulge her with another song. Tillie would have sung a third, fourth, and fifth if they wanted her to.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After a dreadfully long ride, the cab stopped beside a downtrodden diner. A crooked, hand-painted Skinny’s sign sat above fingerprint-streaked windows.

  Oren leaned against the seat in front of him. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

  “It’s the address you gave me, Mr. Cooper,” the cabbie said.

  “Leave it to George to pick somewhere like this,” Oren mumbled as he reached for his wallet to pay the fare. Through one of the splotchy windows, he spotted George in the back corner of the nearly empty diner. He entered, dipping his chin to his chest as he walked past the oblivious hostess flipping through a magazine.

  “Good morning.” Oren took off his hat and sat in the ripped, red booth. “Care to tell me why you’ve dragged me from my rooms so early in the day?”

  “Early? Ha!” George took a drink of his coffee then brushed a few stray drops from his moustache with a thin paper napkin. “You left the party hours before anyone else did.”

  “I wasn’t feeling well.” Oren cleared his throat as he straightened his place setting. He didn’t want to talk about last night. Hell, he still didn’t understand why he left the way he did. He’d been trying to make sense of it all morning, hoping to concoct a reasonable excuse to give to Tillie. “I think I had a migraine.”

  “Oren.” George dropped his voice an octave, and he sounded like a concerned parent. With his forearms pressed to the fading-gray table, he leaned closer. “You can tell me if you brought a woman up to your room.”

  Oren rolled his eyes. “That’s a good guess, but it didn’t happen.”

  George stud
ied him, looking unconvinced. “Okay, okay. Moving on…I got an interesting telephone call yesterday before the show. I wanted to tell you about it at the party, but you left before I could get you alone.”

  One of Oren’s brows quirked. “An interesting phone call?”

  “Some bigwig from MGM.” George flapped his wrist dismissively, like the man’s name didn’t matter. Oren smiled privately. Boy, did ol’ George hold a grudge against Hollywood. “They want to make a Me and Juliet film, and they want you to star in it. Shooting starts in four months.”

  His brow furrowed. “But my contract is for six.”

  “You’ll get out of your contract.” George brought his coffee cup to his lips and paused before taking a drink. “If people hear about this movie, we’ll sell out every night long after you’ve gone back to the west coast.”

  Oren snickered. “Oh, so that’s why you decided to work together? It wasn’t because I changed your mind during our little talk. No, you realized you could make money off me.”

  George wagged a finger at him. “I’m making us both money, and now you have a job waiting for you when you get back.”

  Oren pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed along his brow line. Was he ready to leave New York? Maybe. If his intuition was right, his passion for the business had been reignited when he sang with Tillie. There was something about her—her talent, presence, beauty, or a combination of all three—that made him truly commit to a performance for the first time in years. He couldn’t wait to get on stage that night, to see if the effects carried over.

  If he only he’d have a chance to sing with her again. Unfortunately, he’d probably ruined any chance of that happening.

  The waitress came by with a coffee for Oren and a refill for George.

  Oren poured milk into the chipped cup. “What about Blanche? Does the studio want her to play the lead?”

  “No way.” George shook three sugar packets. “We can hide certain things on stage that the camera can’t ignore. They’re looking for someone younger.”