“Just the sale of it. But if you have your own supply…” He raised a shoulder and retrieved his drink, watching her over the edge of the glass as he sipped. She heard his accent now, less refined than those on Fifth Avenue, with a huskiness inside it that buzzed just under her skin.
“You own a supply of gin?”
He leaned back. “You might be surprised what I own.”
“Indeed.”
Sherwood had his arm around Lexie, tracing his finger along her jawbone, whispering into her ear. Rosie reached over and retrieved Lexie’s purse, pulling out her cigarette holder. Lexie only glanced once, then forfeited a smile as Rosie pulled out a smoke.
Cesar provided a lighter, and she drew in the haze, another moment in Paris fleeting through her, then out again. “What do you own?”
The waiter came and pushed a martini in front of her.
“Ever heard of Valerie’s?” Cesar said.
“It’s a jazz club in Manhattan. Lexie told me about it.”
“Did she mention that it has the hottest acts in the city? Our stage is twice the size of the Cotton Club, twice the spectacle. A real classy joint.”
Rosie refused to betray the way her heartbeat ratcheted, glad she had a cigarette to keep her hands from shaking. “Then what are you doing here?”
He leaned in, met her eyes. So dark, so focused, she had the sense of something reaching out, pinning her fast, stealing her breath. “I came to meet you.”
Oh.
“Lexie told me a lot about you.” He glanced at Lexie then back to her, his eyes darkening.
This time she couldn’t hide the tremble as she brought the cigarette to her lips.
The singer finished her set, and a troupe of sequined women danced out to a fast jazz tune from the orchestra. Rosie recognized the famed Charleston, and watched the footwork of the dancers for a moment.
“I have always wanted to dance like that,” she said, almost under her breath.
“You’re a dancer?”
“Not formally. But someday I’m going to be in show business. I can sing. And act.”
“Really.”
She lifted a shoulder. Looked away. But his low voice filled her ear. “Come work for me, Red. I’ll make you a star.”
She turned to Cesar, studying his face. His dark eyes twinkled now, a smile edging up his face. And, as he leaned back, he held up his hands in surrender. “No strings, I promise.”
“You want me to sing for you?”
“And dance. You’ll be my main attraction.”
She glanced at Lexie, who was grinning at her. Lexie reached out and took Rosie’s cigarette from her, took a drag, and handed it back.
“Of course she will, Cee. Won’t ya, Red darling?”
Yes. For a moment, her future hung right there, on the edge of Lexie’s smile, the way Cesar touched her arm, sending a tingle to her bones. She could be Red, an actress, a star, her name in bright lights, making her forget about—
“Rosie, what are you doing here?”
Rosie stilled, the voice slapping her out of the role she played as she looked up.
Jinx stood over her, her eyes on Cesar, then Lexie. She shook her head. “I should have guessed.”
Lexie rolled her eyes.
“What are you doing here?” Rosie said, but her voice emerged weak, and she couldn’t bear it. Her mother, dressed in a black scooped-necked dress and dark cap, gave her a look that could sear her through.
“Bennett is here on business. I saw you walk in. Funny, I thought you had to be twenty-one to get into a club.” She directed her words to Cesar, then Lexie.
Lexie lifted a shoulder. Rosie couldn’t look at Cesar.
Jinx pursed her primrose lips. “A word with you, please?”
Her mother had powers she couldn’t escape, and Rosie followed her into the hallway, where the noise dimmed. “And you wonder why I worry about you,” Jinx said, flashing her socialite smile for a couple entering the club.
“Mother, you worry about everyone but me. Please.”
“Really? Is that why I managed to salvage your affront to the Duke of Lexington and get you a meeting with him?”
The duke? Oh, she’d thought she’d escaped the European snare when she left France. “He’s here?”
“Arrived last week, and he still wants to meet you.”
“Mother, no. I don’t want to marry a duke.”
“Would you rather be a cigarette girl, flaunting yourself in front of men who want nothing more than to ogle you?”
“No.” But her mother made her aspirations sound so tawdry. “I want to be an actress,” she said thinly.
“Same thing,” Jinx said.
“You embarrassed me just when I was being offered a job.”
“A job?” Jinx took the cigarette from Rosie’s fingers and threw it on the ground as she gestured for their driver.
“I’m not leaving.”
The door opened, and suddenly Bennett appeared, dark and furious. “Jinx, what’s going on out here?” He shot a look at Rosie. “Do you have any idea who you were sitting with back there?” Bennett looked positively ferocious in the wan light, his blue eyes sparking. “That was Cesar Napoli—the son of Vito Napoli, the Italian mob boss. He’s nothing but trouble.”
Jinx shook her head, folded her arms across her ample bosom.
“He said he ran a club,” Rosie said, but her voice sounded thin.
“If that’s what you want to call it. More like a burlesque show. He’s dangerous, and we forbid you to go near him.”
She stared at Bennett, trying to get a handle on her words. “We?” She shook her head. “I’m done listening to either one of you. You destroyed my life with your…tawdry affair. No wonder my brother ran away. Jack didn’t—”
Jinx pressed her hand to her mouth.
Rosie ignored it, losing herself to the fury. “And you—” She pointed at Bennett. “Who do you think you are? You’re not my father—”
“I should have been,” he said softly. His jaw tightened. “I wanted to be.”
She had nothing for him, her body frozen.
Their chauffeur pulled up to the curb in their Rolls Royce.
Bennett opened the car door.
She stared at it. Then, suddenly, she turned and stalked toward the door to the club. “You can tell the duke I’m not available,” she snapped. “Don’t wait up for me. I’m going home with Lexie.” She entered the club and didn’t turn to see if they’d followed her, just weaved her way back around the tables to where Cesar and her friend sat. She sat down, reached for another cigarette, her hands shaking.
Cesar slid his hand along the edge of her chair. “You okay, doll?”
“Your job offer still good?” She blew out an arrow of smoke, watched it curl toward the ceiling, hating the way her eyes smarted. Then she found a smile and gave it to him, sweetening her question.
He pulled a card from his jacket, slid it over to her. “Show up tomorrow and I’ll make you a star.”
Chapter 8
“Seriously, Truman, does this look west to you? Because according to my map, Minnesota is east of South Dakota.” Lilly turned and glared at him, the prop now sputtering out.
“Flaunting that finishing school education again, are you, Lilly?” Truman climbed out of the cockpit, sliding down to the ground. No, he didn’t offer to help her out, but she didn’t really expect it after the past two weeks. He acted like she might be a stray he picked up from one of the dusty North Dakota towns he kept hopping them through.
At this rate, she’d be back to New York long before she ever set foot in Montana.
“Truman, I’m talking to you!” Lilly threw one leg over the edge—thank you, Moseby, for the pants—and held on as she slid down over the side of the plane. She scrambled behind him, pulling her goggles from her eyes. He’d already gained twenty feet on her across the grassy airfield.
“I thought I made it clear that I needed to head west.” She pointed, just in case
he couldn’t figure it out. “The direction of the setting sun.”
“I never said I was a taxi service.” He stopped, looked down at her, only not quite, because his gaze skittered off her, away, as if he couldn’t meet her eyes. “In fact, the only thing I ever said to you was ‘go home.’”
“I’m trying. But you keep flying us to every backwater hole-in-thewall in North Dakota.”
He held up a finger. “We’re in Minnesota now.”
“I don’t care if we are in South Carolina. We’re not heading west.”
“We go where the crowds are,” he said, striding toward where Rango and Suicide Dan had parked the van.
“What crowds? The last two towns were washouts. We barely made enough to cover our gas, repairs, and a night in a hotel.”
He rounded on her. “You have any great ideas on how to bring in the crowds, I’m all ears, New York. The more money we make, the sooner I get you to Montana.”
She didn’t flinch at the mocking. “How about letting Moseby teach me how to wing walk? Two wing walkers will be a bigger draw. I remember a conversation about that too.”
“No recollection of that.” He started to stalk away.
She grabbed his arm. “What I don’t understand is what you’re so afraid of. You told Moseby that anyone could do it.”
“Not you.” He looked down at her hand on his jacket. She didn’t remove it, so he shrugged out of her grip. “You run concessions.”
“I run everything that isn’t in the sky. I clean spark plugs, fill gas tanks, repair wing covers, take tickets, round up spectators, and run around with programs and soda pop and sandwiches. I keep people calm and convince them that you’re a safe pilot and help them into the cockpit. But I can do more, Truman. I could wing walk. I could even learn to fly. What about that—a female pilot in your show?”
“I don’t call the shots on this one.” He still wouldn’t look at her, instead watching Eddie fly in, Moseby in the front seat.
“But isn’t this your circus? Because you’re the one that seems to be in charge of the repairs—repairing wings, changing oil, grinding valves—whatever needs to be done to keep the planes in the air. Not to mention the daily hovering. Did you really order Eddie and Beck to mind their mouths around me?”
“They can run a blue streak that will part your hair once they start drinking. I also told Rango to keep you away from any overzealous spectators, yes.”
“And that was you last night, the creak I heard outside my hotel room door, wasn’t it? Jeepers, you’re the big brother I’ve never had.”
Something hot sparked in his eyes. He hadn’t really looked at her since that morning in Mobridge when he’d returned from town on the truck, shoved a gas can into her hand, and told her to learn how to gas up his plane. She’d obeyed, and only after that did he hand her a helmet and pair of goggles and point to the front cockpit.
Now, the heat in his eyes shook her, along with his quiet words. “I don’t own the circus. I don’t even own my plane. I just fly for Marvel. He can cut me loose anytime, for any reason.” He moved away from her. “Make sure you get your gear out of my plane before I start doing hops. They’re already lining up. Guess you won’t have to wing walk to stir up a crowd.” He winked, but there wasn’t any warmth in it.
Sure enough, a trail of sedans headed down the road, churning up a tail of dust as they motored toward the assembly of planes. Between Lucky Eddie, Beck, and Truman, they could ferry over three hundred passengers in an afternoon. At five bucks a pop, that kept them in supper, if not steaks and flowers. It was Lilly’s job to keep the courage of the patrons aloft as they neared their turn. She usually regaled them with stories of Paris, of the bright lights, omitting Rennie, and focusing on the feeling of soaring.
Unfortunately, it seemed her stories were as close as she would get to wing walking or flying, or doing anything that might help this circus earn enough money to get her back to the ranch. She could still hear Truman’s voice in her head, two days out of Mobridge. “She’s not wing walking—absolutely not. Over my dead body.”
She’d been standing outside the tent as Truman’s voice rattled the poles, no consideration given to the fact she might hear him.
“She wants to, Truman—she keeps saying she’s willing to do anything to help us draw in the crowds.”
Rango. She wanted to hug him. A year older than her, Rango could fix an engine with his eyes closed. He helped run concessions with her at the events, walking through the hot sun with a food box as the flyboys chased each other through the skies. Propeller, the mongrel, belonged to him, although she’d discovered the animal would turn over and expose its belly for anyone on the slightest provocation.
Rango, like her, had no one else. And, he too wanted to fly—or parachute—or anything to help their struggling band of air circus performers. If only Truman might give him the chance. It shouldn’t surprise her, probably, that Rango had taken up for her.
“Why not? You could use two wing walkers.”
“I don’t need anyone else getting killed,” Truman growled. “Stay away from it.”
That had stumped her for two days until she cornered Rango after a show, in the kitchen of the boardinghouse, sneaking a glass of milk.
He drank it from the bottle as the night drifted through the kitchen. “Bette Leary. She was a wing walker with the Heavenly Aces. Was doing a ladder act and got tangled. She couldn’t get back up. Dragged to death in front of a thousand people.”
“So, I won’t do the ladder act.”
Rango took another sip of his milk, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve and capped the bottle. “It’s not just that. There’s extra weight on the wings when a walker gets on them and it offsets the plane, not to mention that your foot could go through the fabric, and you could get tangled on the wing wires. If that happened, the pilot couldn’t land—you’d crash for sure. And, don’t forget, one slipped hold and you’re flying off into air, no parachute.”
“Maybe I’d wear one.”
“They’re too big for you. Besides, that’s a surefire way to get tangled. Wing walkers go without the pack. But they don’t have a long life expectancy.” He offered her the milk.
She shook her head, but his words sloughed through her now, lingering as she headed toward the truck.
“Hey, Lilly, there’s a small tear on my wing—can you take a look?” Lucky Eddie intercepted her, tucking his helmet under his arm.
Apparently, she’d become a doctor as well. But repairs consisted of fabric, glue, and patience. She retrieved her belongings—a satchel that Moseby lent her, along with a pair of boots—thanks, Rango, and pants that Marvel’s wife once owned. She didn’t ask what happened to the wife. Then she headed over to Eddie’s plane. A piece of fabric slapped in the wind on the top leading edge of the lower right wing, a tear that could compromise the entire wing under stress. She retrieved the glue from the supply truck and pasted it down. By the morning’s show, it would hold steady, no more rips.
She found Moseby in the tent, stirring a pot of beans over a portable stove. On days when the takings were thin, Moseby and Beck would pull out their beans, spices, and some version of meat and make a stew that usually kept their spines away from their bellies.
Lilly squatted down opposite her.
“Marvel’s in town, checking on the advance promotion. He came out here a month ago, set up signs. Says we’re in for a record crowd tomorrow.”
“No more beans?”
Moseby smiled. “I was thinking of trying that outside loop Truman and I were talking about.” She offered Lilly the spoon. “Just to give them a thrill.”
“How close to the ground does he get?” Lilly slurped off a taste. “Needs salt.”
“About twenty feet. I figure there’s room enough for my head.” Moseby adjusted the seasonings. She had elegant hands, the kind that reminded Lilly of her mother’s. Piano fingers. Or maybe just strong hands.
“How do you plan to stay on?”
&
nbsp; “I’ve rigged up another rope. I’ll loop it around the front of me as I sit down. I’ll hold tight to the other going up the backside.”
“Isn’t what you’re doing enough?”
“Not to compete with the Flying Aces. They have two wing walkers who actually change planes.”
“How?”
“They use a rope ladder.”
Lilly shook her head. “I heard about Bette. Does that happen a lot?”
Moseby capped the pot, turned down the flame. “Enough. Mostly with parachutists, though. Dropping from the sky like that? Not safe.”
Lilly’s gaze shot of its own accord toward Suicide Dan. Sometimes, in an evening show, he would drop in the dark, shining a light on his descent and pulling his rip cord at the last moment. Lilly never watched to the end.
Moseby pulled out a burlap bag and from inside retrieved two loaves of bread. “Got these in our last town from a church lady who said I should probably stop my foolishness and get married.” She handed them over to Lilly to cut.
“Why don’t you?” Lilly moved to the folding table, began to saw off pieces of the creamy bread.
“I haven’t found anyone I could fall in love with, let alone stop flying for.”
Lilly glanced over her shoulder. “I thought you and Truman were—”
“Nope.” Moseby got up, dusted off her hands. “Truman is a distant cousin, so that puts me off right there. But more than that, he lives to fly. He lives for the adoration of the audience, the thrill of near death, the every-moment-could-be-his-last adrenaline. He doesn’t have room in his life for anything else.”
“But he stays here, eats beans with everyone else.”
Moseby began piling the bread on a plate. “That’s because Truman is also a realist. He knows he needs us to protect his reputation. Especially after the accident.”
“He wrecked a plane?”
“Killed his kid brother. He’d made a name for himself barnstorming across the Midwest, and returned home like some sort of celebrity. Took his brother out for a ride, and his plane caught fire. Flames and belching sparks from the exhaust ports are normal, but when you see it coming from the engine—well, he thinks one of the mechanics left an oily rag in the oil breather. The plane ripped apart before Tru could land. His brother died, Truman broke both arms and was in a coma for three days. But he lived. He’s never forgiven himself, and it didn’t help that the paper claimed pilot error. He got a job in Wichita, working on Jennys, and Marvel caught wind of him. He’s the best flyer I’ve ever seen, but I’m afraid, if Tru could, he’d just set out for the heavens, doing loops and rolls until he ran out of fuel and deadsticked into the ground.”
Baroness Page 14