by Nan Ryan
“Will you kindly keep your voice down,” she said, glancing anxiously about the lobby.
“Sure,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Let’s go have breakfast. I’m famished.”
“I was not going to the dining room,” she frostily informed him.
“No? Well, okay. We’ll go down to the Boardwalk. Lots of places serve good food.”
“I’m not hungry,” she lied. “I…I was on my way to the ladies’ parlor.” She’d be safe there; he couldn’t follow.
“Liar.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You were not going to the ladies’ parlor. You’re hungry and so am I.” He grinned and added, “Besides, we have to plan our day.”
“Our day?” Lucy laughed in his face. “You may do anything you choose with your day, LaDuke. Let me assure you, it has nothing to do with my day.” She started to step around him.
He caught her arm, stopped her. “You still mad because I kissed you last night?”
“Shhhh!” she hissed, her face immediately coloring, “will you be quiet!”
“Only if you’ll agree to have breakfast with me.” His long fingers slid slowly down her arm to her wrist. He gently clasped her hand in his. “Give me a chance to compensate for my ungentlemanly behavior of last night.” He favored her with his most disarming smile. “Please.”
Lucy hesitated. “You’ll behave yourself if I agree?”
“You can count on it,” he promised, placing a spread hand over his heart, looking as earnest as possible.
Lucy wrenched her hand free of his. “Very well then. Let’s go on to the dining…”
“No. Let’s don’t,” he interrupted, taking her elbow. “I’m told the Waldorf-Astoria fixes the best omelettes on the East coast.”
“I don’t like omelettes.”
“Don’t be disagreeable, Lucy,” he said. “Order anything you can think of and the chef will fix it for you.”
“You’ll bring me right straight back here after breakfast?”
“If you want to come right straight back here,” he said, the impish twinkle in his dark eyes predicting she wouldn’t. “Now let’s go before I pass out from hunger.”
Secretly Lucy wanted to go. She was, in fact, dying to see the Waldorf-Astoria. Opened just weeks before, the six-story Waldorf was the first brick hotel to be built on the Boardwalk. The prospect of having breakfast at the brand new showplace greatly appealed to her.
Understated opulence and an uninhibited festive spirit reigned in the Waldorf’s plush restaurant. The hum of gossip filled the vast, marble-columned room where well-heeled patrons were gathered for their first hearty meal of the day.
Blackie’s promise that she could order anything and the Waldorf’s chef would fix it had been no idle boast. Everything imaginable was listed in the leather bound menu a white-jacketed waiter handed her. A long, linen-draped buffet table at the room’s center held huge silver serving dishes stacked high with pyramids of exotic fruits and fluffy French pastries and golden-crusted breads.
“What sounds good?” Blackie asked as they studied their menus.
“I believe I’ll just have a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a hot cinnamon bun,” she said, lowering the red leather menu.
“That’s all?” Blackie’s dark eyebrows lifted. “We’ve got a big day ahead of us, Lucy. You’ll need energy.”
“Nothing more, thanks,” she said, too excited to be really hungry.
Blackie nodded and ordered for them both. A waiter poured steaming hot coffee into their porcelain cups. Blackie passed Lucy the small silver pitcher of cream. She poured freely, then offered it to him.
“No. Just sugar for me.” He took a long swallow, sighed. “Ahhh. Perfection.”
“It looks a little strong,” Lucy remarked, stirring.
“There’s an old Arabic saying that coffee should be black as night, sweet as love, and hot as Hell.”
“You made that up.”
“I did not.”
Their breakfasts arrived. Lucy had never seen anybody order as much food at one time as Blackie. Fresh strawberries and cream. Half a honeydew melon. A glass of pineapple juice. A plate of hot cakes swimming in maple syrup. A fluffy cheese omelette. A rasher of crisp bacon. A side order of ham. A half dozen buttermilk biscuits and peach jam. A tumbler of cold milk.
Lucy shook her head, certain half the food would go to waste. Nobody had that big an appetite. Certainly not a well-built man without an ounce of fat on his tall, lean body.
She teased him. “Now, Blackie, you know that thousands are starving in Ireland. You won’t be allowed to go out and play if you don’t clean your plate.” Chewing, he gave her a half puzzled look. She said, “Didn’t your mother ever say that to you?”
He swallowed, then smiled. “Nope.”
“No? She never once…”
“My mother never had a meal at the same time or the same table with me.”
Lucy stared at him, dumbfounded. “Your family didn’t eat dinner together?”
Blackie shook his head. “Not that I can remember.” He said it as if it was perfectly normal. “Don’t worry, I’m a growing boy. You’ll see all this food disappear so quickly you’ll think you’re across the table from a magician.”
Lucy smiled and asked casually, “Why didn’t your family dine together?”
Blackie cut up his syrup-smothered pancakes. He said, “Do most families in Colonias, New York actually break bread together?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“Well, mine didn’t.” He offered no more information. Quickly changing the subject, he said, “Your cinnamon bun’s getting cold.”
“Mmmm. Smells good, doesn’t it?” Inhaling the pleasing scent of cinnamon, Lucy picked up a heavy Georgian sterling fork and cut into the large bun. She took a bite, chewed, and immediately declared it to be the best pastry she had ever tasted.
“Did you know,” she asked, suddenly feeling gay and in a good mood, “the divine recipe for the holy oil of anointment that Moses recorded in Exodus included cinnamon?”
Blackie swallowed a mouthful of food, took a drink of black coffee. “No! Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured. Then, as if pondering it thoughtfully, he mused, “I did not know that. Boy, am I glad you set me straight.”
Lucy made a mean face at him. “You think you’re so smart, Blackie LaDuke.”
He grinned, unruffled. “Did you know that Nero bought every stick of cinnamon in Rome to burn on his wife’s funeral pyre? Is that romantic enough for you?”
“Romantic? For your information,” Lucy said, shaking her head, “Nero stomped his wife to death in a tantrum.”
“Oh.” Blackie shrugged. “Well maybe she wouldn’t let him play his fiddle.”
Lucy smiled at him. Blackie smiled back.
It was a long, leisurely breakfast and Lucy enjoyed every minute of it. They lingered over fresh cups of coffee and discussed what they would do with the rest of their day. After convincing her that she didn’t really want to go ‘right straight back’ to the Atlantic Grand, Blackie did most of the talking.
“We’ll ride up and down the Boardwalk in a rolling chair,” he told her enthusiastically. “No. No, we’ll rent a couple of bicycles and pedal out to the old light house at…I’ve got it, we’ll go down to the Heintz pier and…”
“Blackie…” She attempted to get a word in edge wise.
“…we’ll go to the Constitution Pavilion,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Or, we’ll grab some bathing costumes and take a swim in the ocean…” He shook his head. “Nah, too soon after breakfast. We’ll visit Hubin’s and buy every picture post card in the place. Or maybe we’ll take off our shoes, go down to the beach and watch the sand sculptors work. Or spend the afternoon at a beer garden or…”
“Blackie, Blackie,” Lucy finally threw both hands up, palms out, to silence him.
“Hmmm?”
Tilting her head to one side, she said, “Do you have tro
uble making up your mind?”
“Well, yes,” he said, “and no.”
Lucy laughed.
“Lucy.”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to kiss you.”
“No. No, Blackie, don’t.”
It was the end of the day. The sun had set. Darkness was not far off.
A late summer dusk was slowly settling over the East Coast. It was that brief daily interlude when the usually crowded Boardwalk was, for the moment, nearly deserted. Tired, sunburned people had gone in for the day. The young fast set had not come out for the night. Electric lights lining the Boardwalk had not yet blazed to life to illuminate the long wooden promenade.
Lucy and Blackie stood at the railing of the near empty Boardwalk, so far down the four-mile walkway they were almost at its end. The enveloping smell of the ocean was strong in the heavy air. The water had turned a deep, gun metal gray, the breakers rolling in to crash in lacy foam on the sandy shore.
Somewhere in the distance a man was whistling the popular melody, You Tell Me Your Dream, I’ll Tell You Mine.
Neither of them had spoken a word for several long minutes. Both leaned on the heavy steel balustrade and stared at the endless ocean. After an active and eventful day, there was now a gentle languor, an ethereal peace that had settled over them.
At last Blackie had slowly turned about, leaned back against the railing. He studied Lucy’s serene face as she gazed at the dark Atlantic. He trailed the back of his hand down her bare forearm. She shivered and looked up at him.
“It’s getting late,” she said, turning to face him.
“Or it’s very early,” he replied, his teeth flashing white in the darkness of his face. “According to how you look at it.”
Lucy smiled. “It’s been a very pleasant day, Blackie, but it’s time I went back to the Grand.”
“I know you’re tired.” He took her hand in his, drew it up and folded it against his chest.
“A little,” she said, so exhausted she felt as if she couldn’t make it back to the hotel.
“We’re a long way from the Atlantic Grand,” he said. “Let’s ride back.”
So saying, Blackie promptly put two fingers in his mouth and gave a long, loud whistle. From out of nowhere a white wicker chair rolled swiftly up. Blackie handed Lucy inside. He took a roll of bills from his white trousers pocket, peeled off a couple, handed them to the chair’s pedaler, and said, “The Atlantic Grand.” He lowered his voice, added softly, “We’re in no hurry, pal.”
There wasn’t as much space in the graceful white wicker chair with its sloping swanlike neck as Lucy had supposed. Blackie was seated very close to her in the cozy conveyance; so close his long arm was around her and her head was on his shoulder. He allowed his knees to spread apart so that one of them was touching hers. The intimacy was both disturbing and delightful.
The slow ride back to the Grand in the rolling chair was every bit as bewitching as Lucy had dreamed. And more. The smooth seductive motion of the chair stirred wisps in her curly chestnut hair, pressed cooling ocean breezes to her warm cheeks, and gently swayed her against her compelling companion.
Lucy listened, entranced by the deep, level timbre of Blackie’s voice as he pointed out the famous hotels lining the Boardwalk. The Dennis. The Traymore. The Brighten. The Chelsea. The Ambassador. The Claridge.
“We’ll go to the dance at the Ritz-Carlton Saturday night,” he said matter-of-factly. “Tomorrow night we’ll go to the grand opening of the Auditorium Pier.”
Lucy smiled, said nothing, more content than she could ever remember being. She felt wonderfully safe and secure. As if she were in a splendid dream from which she never wanted to awaken. The lovely lassitude claiming her, the breathless beauty of the coastal resort in the summer dusk, the comfort and intimacy of the rolling chair, all these things conspired to make it seem natural and right to snuggle up trustingly to Blackie.
Lucy sighed and her lashes lowered when Blackie’s free arm came around her to press her closer. He held her so close she could feel the slow, regular cadence of his heart beating against her breasts. It was the sweetest of sensations. Her eyes closed completely and she swallowed convulsively.
Then Lucy held her breath.
Any second Blackie would whisper, as he had earlier, ‘Lucy, I’m going to kiss you.’ She could hardly wait. This time she just might not say no.
It never happened.
The unpredictable Blackie LaDuke made no attempt to kiss Lucy, either in the rolling chair or at the door of her third floor hotel room when he said goodnight. Lucy was frankly puzzled.
And more attracted than ever.
Chapter Sixteen
From that day forward, Lucy was never by herself again. The playful, devilish Blackie wouldn’t leave her alone. Even though Lucy avoided him like the plague.
Or tried to.
Instinctively, she recognized him as trouble. Blackie LaDuke was not only wickedly good looking, he was wild and worldly, a handsome heartbreaker if ever there was one. There was an aura of attractive danger about him and Lucy knew better than to associate with such a man.
To allow one’s self ever to care for a happy-go-lucky rounder like LaDuke was absolutely out of the question. Colonel Cort Mitchell—whose opinion she valued highly—had stated flatly that while Blackie was charming and likeable, he had neither deep convictions nor high ambition. Lucy congratulated herself on being far too clever to fall victim to the shallow charms of the hedonistic hellion.
She hadn’t been around much, but she was nobody’s fool. She would continue—no matter how strongly she was tempted to do otherwise—to hold the teasing, tormenting Blackie at arm’s length for the duration of her brief holiday.
Then, of course, she would return home.
And never see Blackie LaDuke again.
Blackie, for his part, found Lucy’s firm indifference rather refreshing. He was not accustomed to such standoffish behavior from a female. The beautiful Park Avenue Goddess had fallen into bed with him only hours after they met. And she wasn’t the only one. Women usually threw themselves at him.
Not Lucy Hart.
From their chance meeting on Sunday, she had actually wanted nothing to do with him and hadn’t hesitated to let him know it. Which amazed him. And amused him no end. It made her a bit of a challenge. So, he doggedly pursued her to the total exclusion of anyone else, leaving dozens of disappointed women puzzled and incensed by his strange behavior.
Blackie liked being with Lucy.
He was delighted to learn that Lucy Hart was not only wholesomely pretty; she was also extremely bright. She had a caustic wit, which was totally at odds with her spinsterish propriety. She was wonderfully simplistic and at the same time mysteriously complicated. Most of all, there was about Lucy an appealing vulnerability.
Surprisingly, he found he was more than a trifle intrigued by the well bred, straight laced, small town postmistress.
Nonetheless, Blackie’s main concern was that Lucy Hart had an exciting, enjoyable time on her brief seaside holiday.
He hadn’t forgotten the circumstances surrounding their unlikely meeting. Lucy had been let down by her Mr. Mooney, the bumbling bachelor Pennsylvania postmaster who had promised to meet her and then had never showed up. And hadn’t even had the common decency to send her a wire of apology or explanation.
The thought of it rankled Blackie. Made him mad as hell. Made his hands ball into tight fists. Made him itch to get mitts on Mooney so the could throw a couple of well-aimed punches at the callous bastard’s ugly mug.
On Lucy Hart’s behalf, of course.
Blackie laughed at himself for feeling so passionate about the situation. He’d be the first to admit that it was out of character to concern himself with anyone’s feelings but his own, so he wondered at himself. What was it to him? Why did he feel inclined to champion the prim postmistress?
He honestly didn’t know.
All he knew was Lucy Hart had touched
something in him he hadn’t known was there. Lucy had suffered an undeserved, hurtful disappointment and he hated it that she had.
Blackie didn’t fully understand why, but he felt strongly compelled to make it up to her. As if he should personally see to it she got to do all the things she hadn’t done, to see all the sights.
Blackie appointed himself the guardian of Lucy’s good times. He wanted her to have the vacation of her life in Atlantic City. And who better qualified to show her a few fleeting days of fun?
“What’s he up to?”
“Up to? My dear Colonel, what do you mean, up to?
“What’s his motive?”
“Motive? Why, Cort Mitchell, you should be ashamed of yourself,” scolded Lady Strange. “What makes you think there is a motive?”
“Because he knows Blackie as well as we do,” Lochlin MacDonald told her with a cheerful laugh.
The three old friends were on the sunny balcony just outside Lochlin’s fifth-floor suite. Hanging in the corner window was the ship’s bell with a rope on the clapper, a memento of the days when Lochlin had been a mate aboard the S. S. Lisbon. At the balcony railing was a powerful swivel telescope mounted on a tripod. The expensive telescope was Lochlin MacDonald’s pride and joy. The former seaman whiled away many an hour with his eye pressed to the powerful lens, watching the great ships navigate the seas he used to sail.
It was early Friday afternoon. They had just finished having lunch. Lady Strange, in a broad brimmed straw hat shading her round face and wearing a yoked shapeless dress of bright pink cotton sat sprawled in a padded love seat meant for two. There was only room enough for her and her spoiled, fat black Persian, Precious.
Lochlin MacDonald, in his wheel chair, was seated underneath the enormous black-and-white striped umbrella that rose from the center of the round table. A tray, attached to his wheelchair’s arms, was across his knees. As he talked and laughed, he played a game of solitaire in an attempt to keep his weak, withering hands and fingers nimble. Usable.
The lanky Cort Mitchell stood at the balcony railing peering through the telescope.