by Nan Ryan
Another treasured friend was the wheelchair-bound Lochlin MacDonald. Then there were the Langfords, an aging, devoted couple who lived on the second floor. And her patient, caring physician, Doctor Haney. A couple of widow ladies from the small inn next door. The Atlantic Grand’s middle-aged assistant manager, Timothy Stone.
And her favorite of all, a lovable, bad boy whom she didn’t get to see nearly enough, the handsome New Yorker, Blackie LaDuke.
Lady Strange had known Blackie since the days when he was a shy, adorable little boy and she was the tiny, doll-like wife of the British aristocrat, Lord William Strange. The two of them had remained friends after Blackie was ostracized by his influential family and she divorced by the restless, roving-eyed Lord Billy.
Lady Strange had gotten wind of Blackie’s arrival within hours of his checking into the hotel. She had sent word that he had better not wait too long to come up if he knew what was good for him. His reply had been delivered along with the large, satin covered box of clotted creams, which she had just polished off. The card said she was to expect him ‘Tuesday at the stroke of midnight’.
Lady Strange had spent the evening primping and preparing herself for Blackie’s anticipated visit. And now the appointed hour was at hand.
Lady Strange glanced at the ornate gold clock on the marble fireplace mantle. She immediately snapped her short plump fingers and ordered the startled Precious to get down off her lap. The over-weight black Persian gave her a ferocious look, hissed meanly, but leapt down and strolled regally from the room without looking back.
Groaning and struggling, Lady Strange managed—with effort—to get up out of her easy chair. Puffing as she waddled about, she anxiously tidied the parlor, clearing away Precious’s empty silver dish and the empty candy box.
Then she tidied herself.
She plucked long black cat hairs off the ruby velvet dressing gown as she went into her silk walled boudoir. There she washed her soiled hands thoroughly, dusted her shiny nose with a new coat of powder, checked her carefully dressed dark hair, and then spritzed herself generously with the scandalously expensive perfume Colonel Mitchell had brought her from his last trip abroad.
Lady Strange was back in the spacious parlor and seated in her chair when she heard the knock. Her fat, baby face immediately breaking into a wide grin of pleasure, she stayed where she was, carefully arranging her ruby velvet dressing gown and folding her hands atop her dome-like belly in an attempt to appear regal.
She called out, “If it’s Blackie, come on in. If it’s somebody else, come back in the morning.”
Blackie came through the door laughing.
“Blackie, my sweet Blackie,” Lady Strange greeted him warmly; her short arms lifted and outstretched, beckoning to him. “Come here to me!”
Blackie crossed to her, put a hand on each arm of her easy chair, leaned down, kissed her fleshy cheek, and said against her small pink ear, “You look like a million dollars unspent.”
“Oh, you shameless flatterer,” she said, fondly pressing her powdered cheek to his.
“Tell me this, sweetheart,” said Blackie, “is it my imagination, or is there more here to love than the last time I saw you?”
Lady Strange giggled good-naturedly, pushed him away, and said, “If I’ve gained a pound or two, it’s your fault!” Blackie straightened and smiled down at her as she accused, “Sending me that enormous box of delicious clotted creams! Blackie, honey, you know I can’t resist clotted creams.”
“And why in the world should you?” said Blackie, backing away, dropping agilely down onto the comfortable white sofa across from her. “Good god, can’t a girl have a piece of candy?” Smiling broadly, he leaned back and made himself comfortable.
“This girl sure can,” Lady Strange said, patting her fat belly. “Now, what can I get you, Blackie? Bourbon? Scotch? A glass of Rosé?”
Blackie stopped smiling. He screwed up his face as if thinking, finally said, “Mmmmm, I believe I’ll just have a couple of pieces of that clotted cream candy.” He grinned then, his black eyes twinkling with devilment.
Lady Strange made a mean face at him. “You know very well there is none.”
“What? No candy left?” Blackie’s heavy black eyebrows shot up as if he was shocked. “You’ve already devoured that entire five pound box of…”
“And what of it?” she cut in. “I had a light dinner. I needed a little nourishment if I was to stay up this late.”
Blackie chuckled at her lame excuse. Lady Strange stayed up late every night, had for as long as he’d known her.
“Want me to hop down to the kitchen and see about a roast beef sandwich to tide you over until breakfast?”
Blue-white diamonds flashed as Lady Strange waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be getting smart with me as soon as you’re back in town!” She pointed toward the liquor cabinet and inclined her head. “Pour me a glass of apricot brandy and let’s talk.”
Lady Strange sipped her sweet brandy and accepted a cigarette from the silver case Blackie withdrew from the inside breast pocket of his dark suit jacket. He struck a match with his thumbnail, held the tiny flame to her cigarette as she puffed it anxiously to life.
Blowing out a great cloud of smoke, then plucking the lighted cigarette from her ruby red lips, Lady Strange quickly warned, “You’re not to tell a soul about this. It wouldn’t do for people to know I smoke cigarettes like some common strumpet.”
“And cigars,” Blackie blithely reminded her, lifting the still burning match to his own cigarette.
“Oh, hush up,” she said, waving the cigarette at him. She leaned back in her chair, attempted to press her dimpled knees together beneath the flowing velvet robe, and said, “Sit down and tell me about yourself. Where’s that haughty, blond, Park Avenue socialite? What’s her name? Tillie? Millie? I can’t seem to remember.”
“Lilly. You know very well that her name is Lilly Styvestant. She’s not with me. I’m very much alone.”
A well-arched eyebrow lifted. Lady Strange said, “Why, you must be losing your touch, Blackie, my boy.” She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “In Atlantic City for more than forty eight hours and still without a lover?” Smiling naughtily, she puffed on her cigarette, blinking as the smoke drifted up into her eyes.
“Feel sorry for me?”
She laughed and so did he.
They continued to laugh and talk for the next couple of hours. Catching each other up on all the news, they interrupted one another often, talking at once, firing questions and supplying answers.
Inquiring about everyone, Blackie said, “I saw Lochlin down on the Boardwalk yesterday afternoon. He looked awfully pale to me, but said he was feeling good. He alright?”
The smile never left Lady Strange’s round face as she nodded. She and Colonel Mitchell—nobody else—knew that the cheerful, wheelchair-imprisoned Lochlin MacDonald would not live to see another summer, likely wouldn’t last until Christmas. Both had promised Lochlin, who abhorred being pitied, that they wouldn’t tell anyone.
“Ah, Lochlin’s fine,” she said now. “He needs to get more sun.”
Finally Blackie, yawning sleepily, glanced at the ornate gold clock on the mantle. Half past two. He rose from the sofa, stretched lazily, and refused to listen when Lady Strange protested his leaving.
“You’re not going! You just got here. Please, stay a while, Blackie.”
Blackie stifled a yawn, crossed to her, put out a hand and—with effort—drew the mountainous little woman to her feet.
“Can’t. Walk me to the door,” he said. “I need some sleep. I’m awfully tired.”
Lady Strange immediately let him know she knew everything that went on in the big hotel. “I would imagine you are a little tired,” she said pointedly. “Staying out all night both Sunday and Monday.”
They had reached the door. Blackie turned to face her. He plucked a long ebony cat hair from the shoulder of her ruby red dressing gown. “I see you still
have that spoiled tom.” He frowned.
“Don’t change the subject. You stayed out all night…”
“You’re a busybody, Lady Strange.”
“Clairvoyant,” she corrected. “For instance, I know that you had dinner this evening with a reasonably attractive, but rather retiring postmistress from Colonias, New York.” She laid a plump spread hand on Blackie’s white shirtfront, looked up at him with questioning blue eyes. “I wouldn’t suppose that a woman like Miss Hart would be your type.” She waited for him to speak. Blackie said nothing, just smiled easily at her and remained maddeningly silent. “So…?” she prompted.
“So…what?”
Exasperated, she said, “So, what’s the story, Blackie? What’s going on?”
“You’re the fortune teller,” he said with a teasing grin. “Read your tea leaves.”
Chapter Twelve
Wednesday morning.
Lucy had decided.
She would return home as soon as she could. This afternoon if possible. There was no earthly reason for her to stay on in Atlantic City and squander away even more of her hard earned money.
Lucy’s green eyes narrowed as she considered the cost of her failed adventure. The round trip train fare, the steamboat charges, the expensive hotel room, the clothes she had purchased specifically to wear at the oceanside resort.
In particular, the exorbitantly priced, white tulle evening gown, which would have no place back in Colonias.
Her initial disappointment at Theodore D. Mooney’s puzzling failure to keep their long planned engagement had turned to resentment and anger. If she could just get her hands around Theodore’s throat, she would…
A knock on the door startled Lucy.
She dropped a carefully folded, lawn nightgown into an open valise and frowned, puzzled. She moved dubiously toward the closed door.
Reaching it, she said, “Yes? Who is it?”
“Benny the bellhop, Miss Hart. I have something for you.”
Curious, Lucy opened the door. The smartly uniformed Benny smiled broadly at her.
“Good morning to you,” he said brightly and presented her with a long white box tied with a wide blue ribbon.
“For me? What’s this?” she said, staring at the box, then at the beaming Benny. “I don’t understand.”
“Looks like flowers to me,” he said, bowed, and began backing away.
“But I…wait, Benny, I have some coins in my…”
“Keep your money,” he said, waving a gloved hand as he hurried away.
Lucy closed the door. She untied the blue ribbon, took the lid of the long white box, and pushed aside the green tissue paper. Her emerald eyes grew round and she stared unbelieving at a dozen freshly cut ivory gardenias.
Her heartbeat quickened.
Who but Theodore D. Mooney would be sending her gardenias?
Lucy anxiously placed the open box on the cherry wood drum table, searched for an enclosed card, and found it tucked inside. She tore the small envelope open with shaking hands and read the brief message.
I enjoyed last night’s dinner. So did you.
Admit it.
Blackie
Lucy couldn’t keep from smiling.
She shook her head, laid the card aside, and lifted the fragrant bouquet of velvety petaled gardenias from the tissue-lined box. She placed the flowers in the delicate porcelain vase on the table and arranged the blossoms with an artist’s eye, then stood back to admire them.
She was carefully pouring water into the vase to keep the gardenias fresh when the thought struck her that this was the first time in her entire life a gentleman had sent her flowers. Lucy smilingly corrected herself.
Blackie LaDuke was no gentleman.
All the same it was flattering and pleasurable to receive a bouquet of fresh cut flowers from a member of the opposite sex and it seemed a terrible shame that she wouldn’t be staying to enjoy them. She would check out of the Atlantic Grand early this afternoon and the maid who came to clean the room would dispose of the beautiful gardenias.
Well, it couldn’t be helped.
There was no time for sentimentality; she had things to do. First on the agenda was a dash down to the Boardwalk stalls to hunt for an Atlantic City souvenir for sweet little Annie Widner.
Annie was an adorable child and Lucy cherished the four-year-old almost most as much as Annie’s parents. Lucy was grateful to Bruce and Kitty for sharing their loveable daughter with her. The happy, golden-curled little girl had brought a world of sunshine into Lucy’s well-ordered life.
The gardenias momentarily forgotten as she considered what might be the ideal trinket to take home to Annie, Lucy decided she’d finish her packing later. She glanced toward the doors standing open to her tiny balcony. A strong, bright sun was shining down from a cloudless summer blue sky.
Lucy put a floppy brimmed straw hat on her head, tilted it slightly down over her face, took up her reticule, and left the gardenia scented room.
Downstairs in the lobby she looked anxiously around to make sure Blackie LaDuke wasn’t lurking about, ready to tease and torment her. Actually there was little danger of running into the charming rascal. After all, this hour of the morning was Blackie LaDuke’s bedtime.
Lucy automatically went to the registration desk and checked for messages. Wondering why she had bothered, she headed for the double doors at the back of the main lobby. She stepped out onto the wide veranda, paused, drew a deep breath of the fresh sea air, and looked out at the awesome Atlantic.
She suppressed a sigh and started down the steep steps to the Boardwalk. And stopped short midway down. Her lips fell open in astonishment.
At the base of the steps Blackie LaDuke stood leaning against the banister, smoking a cigarette. He looked wide awake and as fresh as a daisy in starched white duck trousers and a close fitting summer shirt of pale blue cotton. A coconut straw boater sat atop his head, the stiff brim pulled low over his dark dancing eyes.
“Well, look what the tide’s brought in,” Blackie said, grinning as he pushed the boater’s brim back, releasing a shock of thick raven hair. “If it’s not Lucy with the light brown hair.”
He began to sing Foster’s ballad, Jeannie With the Light Brown Hair, substituting Lucy’s name.
Passersby slowed and stared.
“Will you stop it!” Lucy said, glancing around, embarrassed. She hurried down to him, “Shhhh!”
Blackie stopped in mid-lyric. He pushed away from the banister, dropped his cigarette, and crushed it out beneath his left shoe.
He said cheerily, “Where we going this morning?”
“In opposite directions!” Lucy told him frostily, stepping past him, and marching off down the Boardwalk.
Blackie easily caught up and fell into step with her. “Lucy, I hate to have to say this, but I’m a little disappointed in you.”
“If you’re expecting me to ask why,” she told him with a dismissive glance, “you’ll again be disappointed.”
Blackie laughed. “I like you, Lucy Hart, damned if I don’t. So I’ve decided to forgive your rudeness at not acknowledging the gardenias I sent and go on as though you properly thanked me for my thoughtfulness.”
They were out on the busy, four-mile-long Boardwalk now, passing musicians, jugglers, and street entertainers.
“You may go on any way you please, Mr. LaDuke,” Lucy’s tone was biting, “so long as it isn’t with me.”
And so saying, Lucy hurried ahead and ducked into the open door of a small souvenir shop. She stayed in the shop for several minutes, looking over the myriad variety of merchandise, hunting a memento for Annie Widner.
She finally chose a large beautiful pink seashell with Atlantic City, New Jersey painted on it in bright blue enamel letters. Lucy walked out of the store with her treasure and was half surprised to see that Blackie LaDuke was not waiting there for her.
She shrugged slender shoulders and was ready to start back to the Atlantic Grand when she caught s
ight of Blackie several yards on down the Boardwalk. He must have felt her eyes on him because he looked up and motioned for her to join him.
He stood in a small gathering of people before a man seated in a hospital chair directly beside a large standing scale. As Lucy watched, a brawny sailor stepped up before the man in the chair, slowly turned about in a circle.
The wheelchair-bound man looked keenly at the big sailor, sizing him up, then said loudly, “Two hundred thirty-two pounds.”
The sailor stepped up onto the tall Toledo scales. The black needle on the large white face of the standing scale zipped over to two hundred thirty-two pounds. And stopped.
Laughter and applause erupted as Lucy, intrigued, ventured closer. His coconut straw boater gone, black hair ruffling in the breeze, Blackie hurried to her, took her elbow, and said, “I want to introduce you to an old friend.” Blackie waited a moment or two until the crowd thinned and cleared out, then steered Lucy forward. “Lochlin, may I present Lucy Hart. Lucy, say hello to my old pal, Lochlin MacDonald.”
“Mr. MacDonald,” Lucy said, reaching out to shake his hand.
“A real pleasure, Lucy,” he said and she could tell he attempted to firmly grip her hand, but failed.
His smile was as warm as the August sunshine but he was delicately built and his skin had a gray, wax like pallor. A long sleeved shirt concealed his arms and a lightweight lap robe covered his legs and feet.
“Lochlin can guess your age right on the money,” Blackie boasted.
Lucy smiled. “Oh, really? Just how old am I, Mr. MacDonald,” she asked, taking off her floppy brimmed bonnet so he could get a good look at her face.
“That’s too easy,” Lochlin MacDonald was graciously flattering, “you can’t be a day over twenty four.”
“Why it’s uncanny,” Lucy exclaimed, as if believing he meant it. Then she laughed and said, “that’s close enough. No second guesses allowed!”
“Let him guess your weight,” Blackie prodded. “He can come within two pounds, I promise.”
“No kidding?” Lucy said, continuing to smile at the infirm man in the chair. “I don’t know, I’m heavier than I look, Mr. MacDonald.”