They climbed off the stage as the fighters took their positions. But even as the bell rang and the audience’s attention diverted to the fight, she buzzed with the fait de accompli. The other chorus girls eyed her with suspicion, but she hadn’t given enough of herself away for her to feel shame.
Instead of settling them back on the sofa, Cesar steered them toward his office, behind the bar. “I have something I want to give you,” he said.
He closed the door behind him, the sounds of the fight muffling. His office always reminded her of her father’s, back when they lived in the chateau. Dark mahogany panels, a matching desk, leather smoking chairs before a marble fireplace. Velvet drapes framed the window, where outside, rain spattered on the sidewalk. A gilded mirror hung over the mantel, reflecting the office back on itself.
Cesar let go of her hand, turned, and sat on the edge of his desk.
“You’re very beautiful tonight, Red. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that sooner.” He took her hand and pulled her to himself, his lips at her neck, trailing up to her face.
She let herself surrender to his kiss, drifting away to a different place, a windy boardwalk, the smells of the sea. When he was finished, he let her go, wiping his thumb along her lips. “I smudged you.”
“I can repair it,” she said, producing a smile. After all, she was an actress.
“You please me.” He ran his hand down her arm. “You’re so beautiful, so refined. Not like the other chorus girls—floozies, really. You’ve got real class, Red, just like Lexie said.” He stood up, put his hand to her throat. “I’m really sorry I scared you a few weeks ago.” He let his hand sit there, heating her, rousing the memory as he met her eyes. His were almost black, they held her fast, as if searching for her forgiveness.
She wasn’t sure whether to believe his words, but she offered it anyway with a nod. “I should have listened to you.”
“Yes.” He moved his hand to her face, cupped her cheek for a moment, then turned and walked around the desk. “I think you need to replace the memory of my hand around your neck.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a wide, long velvet box.
She stared at it. Held her breath. He came back around the desk and handed it to her. “To my leading dame.”
She opened it, and everything stilled inside when she saw the pearls. An immense rope of them, enough to loop around her neck two, maybe three times and still dangle down to her navel. She looked up at Cesar. “I don’t know what to say.”
His expression softened. “You’re pleased, then.”
She nodded, no acting necessary. What a kind thing he’d done. And he did look apologetic for his crimes. “Cesar, these are so beautiful.”
He reached over, pulled them out. “Let me put them on you.” She turned to the fireplace and saw herself in the mirror as he stepped behind her and put the pearls around her neck. Smooth hands, nothing like Guthrie’s—she shooed that thought away. Cesar looped them again, and finally a third time, until they stacked on her neck then fell to a grand loop at her waist. He settled his hands on her shoulders and met her gaze in the mirror.
“There’s my girl.” They looked good together. Flashy, with her peroxide hair so blond it shimmered in the light, and his dark, regal Italian. Maybe she did belong to him.
She turned and wrapped her arms around his neck, smelling on him the cigar smoke, the starch in his suit. “I am your girl, Cesar.”
His hands circled her waist and held her for a moment. Then he moved her away. “Perfect.”
She nearly glowed as they exited his office, moving back through the crowd. The fight had finished the first round, heading into the second, and a few guests took the time to congratulate her—a few of the men directing their congratulations to Cesar, with appreciative glances flashed her direction. She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and held on.
The night folded away into more drinks, more fights, more politics, and the occasional whisper of his lips across her check. Cesar kept a firm grasp on her, sending her away only to refill his drink, and even then he looked for her when she returned.
His leading dame.
She glanced at the clock, saw it edging past 2 a.m., and refused to count the hours until Guthrie’s train left. Not that it mattered. She belonged here, with Cesar.
She was a starlet.
The crowd began to thin, and then, abruptly at three, Cesar rose and bid everyone good night, almost shooing out the crowd. Men peeled out of corners, cigarette girls attached to their arms. Others left with some of his chorus girls, and she saw Nicey on the arm of her suitor. Mickey at the bar began closing up, and the remaining wait staff collected the debris of the night. The band started to pack up.
Cesar sat on the sofa and watched it all, his eyes blank.
“Cesar, are you okay?” She drew up her knees beside him. “You look tired.”
He glanced at her. “I’m thirty-two years old, and what do I have?”
“What are you talking about? You got this great place, a swell show, all these friends turning out to wish you happy birthday.”
“These ain’t my friends. These are leeches—they all want something from me.” He picked up the end of her pearls. “Even you, doll. You don’t really love ole Cesar.” He watched her with milky, dark eyes, waiting.
Deep inside, a socialite knew the right answer. “Sure I do, Cesar. I’m here, aren’t I?”
He touched her cheek. “Prove it, baby. Can’t you prove it?”
She shrugged and leaned in, gave him a kiss on his cheek.
He leaned his head back, smiled. “You can do better than that, can’t you?”
She grinned, despite the whirl in her chest, then kissed him on the lips. He cupped his hand behind her head, held her there, exploring her lips. He tasted of brandy and smoke, and his kiss was sloppy, but she felt in it a longing that allowed her a measure of pity. He was just drunk.
“C’mon, Cesar,” she said when he let her go. “Let’s get you into your office and onto the sofa. You need some sleep.” She stood up and wrestled him to his feet. He hung his arm over her shoulder but managed to walk on his own to his office. She opened the door, turned on the light, and struggled to help him to the sofa. He kicked the door shut on the way.
He tumbled onto the sofa, his arm still tight around her, bringing her with him. She landed beside him, ingloriously stabbing her elbow into his chest. Her arm was pinned beneath her, the other still bracing herself on his shoulder. He laughed, so she did too, until suddenly, he rolled on top of her. Too fast for a drunk man—this was a move from someone seasoned.
She lay pinned under him, his body large over hers. She pushed her free arm against his chest. “Cesar, let me up.”
He laughed again, and that’s when she knew he’d tricked her. He caught her hand above her head, pinning it to the edge of the sofa. Then, he leaned close, put his nose to her neck, and drew in a breath. “I like that smell,” he said softly. He lifted his head, looked into her eyes. “Do you belong to me, Red?”
She bit her lip, not sure if she should scream. “I—I don’t know.”
His eyes darkened, and suddenly, he slapped her, a backhanded blow across her cheek that rattled her teeth and bruised her cheekbone, her eye socket. The pain flashed in her eyes, and she cried out. She began to squirm away, but he held her wrist fast, tightening his hold. The other hand he cupped to her neck. “Would you like to try again? Do you belong to me, Red?”
Her breath wobbled inside. “Yes. Yes, of course, Cesar.”
“Say it.”
“I belong to you.”
He smiled, incisors showing. “Yes, you do.”
And then he kissed her. Hard, without kindness, bruising her lips, crushing them to her teeth. She twisted to get away. “Please!”
He held her face in his grip, his mouth at her neck, his hand at her hem. She kicked and thrashed. “No, Cesar—stop!”
But he had his hand on her thigh, and she knew no one was coming to stop him.
In the thrashing, her pinned arm broke free, and while his hand groped for her clothing, she clawed the floor for anything. Her hand hit the table. She searched it and found something hard.
An ashtray. She put her hand around it, and when Cesar came up for air, she brought her knee up hard. He snarled, and with everything she had, she clocked him across the face. He roared in pain, blood spurting from his nose, onto her dress, now ripped and mussed. He reared, both hands on his nose as he wailed, cursing at her. She scrambled back and landed a kick in his chest.
He went over the side of the sofa with a thud. She didn’t even pause to look behind her, just leaped over the sofa and ran for the door.
“Red! You come back here!”
She escaped into the now dark bar, heading for the street.
Heading—please God—for Chicago.
* * * * *
She just had to get to Central Station. Rosie huddled in an alleyway, her arms wrapped around herself, shivering, soaked all the way through to her bones, waiting for the car to pass. She had no doubts that Cesar sent his men out looking for her. No doubts that when he found her, she might not ever be able to take the stage again after he worked her over.
She’d spent the last two hours remembering the stories she’d heard from the other girls. She’d been so naïve to think he wouldn’t turn his dark side toward her.
Her mother’s words that night outside the Cotton Club echoed inside. He’ll only hurt you. Why hadn’t she listened to her mother—Jinx knew the type, having been married for nearly two decades to a man who abused her. The car splashed water onto the sidewalk, dribbling mud onto her dress, her stockings. She probably looked like a street waif, bedraggled, dirty, starving. Her hair hung in strings around her face, and she hadn’t stopped to retrieve her coat as she escaped Valerie’s. She had, however, fled with the pearls, an oversight Cesar wouldn’t forget either.
The car turned the corner, and she stepped out of the alleyway and quick-walked down the street. The sun had begun to turn the day dismal and gray, the sky overcast with the pallor of death. Rain spit on her skin, and a cruel wind licked through her soggy, ruined dress. The rain had stirred the dank smells of dirt and rot from the alleyways, and she could still taste the tinny rinse of blood in her mouth from where Cesar slapped her.
Another car passed her and she jumped and turned away, but it didn’t slow.
Six more blocks to Central Station. Six more blocks to Guthrie and his proposal.
Six more blocks and she’d leave behind Red Worth, actress, and try on a new life as Mrs. Guthrie Storme.
If Guthrie would still have her. She wiped her face, her eyes blurring as she ducked her head into the icy rain. Why hadn’t she said yes? Why hadn’t she looked into his eyes and let herself surrender to the kindness there?
“I’m not the marrying kind, Guthrie. I’m a chorus girl, and I’m headed for show business.”
Not anymore. Not if Cesar found her. And certainly not in New York.
But it could never work between them. Guthrie was kindness and chivalry and sacrifice. She simply didn’t know what to do with that kind of affection. She needed the kind of affection that could be bartered, the kind she could control.
But now, she needed escape more. And she was willing to barter her heart for it.
A taxi shot by and she held up her hand too late, only realizing then that she had also left without her reticule.
Four blocks.
She passed an unlit storefront, mannequins in the windows, another with a display of jewelry.
What if she went home? The thought scurried inside her. She could return home, throw herself at her parents’ feet, apologize, and beg for their protection. Bennett surely had the power to keep her safe.
Except…except Cesar’s hand extended into every pocket in the city. She’d seen the men attending his party this evening. Aldermen and lawyers, businessmen and cops. They all drank his whiskey, toasted to his health. They all owed him favors.
And one day, regardless of how she hid in her home, Cesar would find a way to punish her. Maybe through her mother. Or even…She put her hand to her mouth, shaken by the thought. What if he hurt Finn?
Two more blocks. She tucked herself into an alcove of a building as another car passed, and behind it a delivery truck. She had to get off the street, and soon. She could see Central Station from here; the massive Corinthian columns, the grand clock rising above 42nd Street told her she hadn’t yet missed the train.
She just might make it.
She waited until another sedan passed then crossed the street, put her head down, and tried to conjure up some explanation for Guthrie that wouldn’t send him to the police, or worse, back to Cesar’s club with his fists cocked.
What if she’d simply…changed her mind?
She had. Between Valerie’s and the entrance to Central Station, she knew exactly what she wanted. No more show business. She would marry Guthrie and figure out how to help him with his world, his baseball career. Didn’t he call her his lucky charm? She could give him that much, and more. She’d cheer him on, like the other wives, and learn how to build a home for him.
And someday, she’d also learn how to love him.
She nearly wept when she opened the massive doors to Grand Central Terminal.
Cesar wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t guess.
The expansive ticketing area, with the domed ceiling of the skies, the massive chandeliers dripping light upon the vast emptiness, hollowed her out. She didn’t see him anywhere.
She walked into the main waiting area, the rows and rows of pews lined up like a church. A few sailors, a family of five, the children sprawled over their belongings as they slept, an elderly woman holding her valise as if someone might run by and yank it from her grip.
What if he’d already left? She pressed her hand against her roiling stomach.
Or…It was only five. Perhaps he simply hadn’t arrived yet.
She found a place in the back, a place that allowed her to survey the entire room, and scooted in, folding her arms around her. The cavernous room devoured any heat, and she shivered as she looked for a vent.
“Is this seat taken?”
She looked up at the voice and found it attached to an elderly woman, only her doughy, wrinkled face showing from the folds of her habit. Rosie frowned, looked at the empty bench beside her, the rows and rows of unoccupied spaces, and could only shake her head.
“Very good, then,” the nun said and sat on the bench, setting her valise beside her on the marbled floor. “I find it so lonely to wait for the train, and you looked like you might need a friend.”
Rosie tried to fit herself back together, hoping the bruise Cesar left behind hadn’t yet formed. She noticed the mud on her stockings, the way the gauzy rose-colored fabric of her dress had turned transparent in the rain so that perhaps even her undergarments bled through.
She put a hand to her hair, tried to smooth it.
“I see you were caught in the storm,” the nun said.
“Something like that.”
A gentleman walked into the waiting area. Not Guthrie. Her heart sank.
“My name is Sister Mary Susan.”
“Re—Rosie Worth.” She eked a smile from the despair inside.
Sister Mary Susan said nothing for a moment as a family entered the waiting area, the mother pushing a pram.
“Where are you headed, Miss Worth?”
Rosie rubbed her finger and thumb into her eyes and pulled away kohled fingers. She couldn’t imagine what a horror she must appear. “I hope to Chicago.”
“What’s in Chicago?” Sister Mary Susan leaned over, her cross swinging forward as she opened her valise.
Rosie watched a couple enter, the man carrying two suitcases, the woman in a coat and hat, dressed for trave
l.
Oh, what would Guthrie think when he saw her, bedraggled, dressed for a party? Surely he’d know she was desperate, and then what? Would he believe she really wanted to be with him?
“I’m supposed to meet someone here. He’s traveling to Chicago, and I’m hoping he’ll allow me to accompany him.”
Sister Mary Sue continued to rummage through her valise. Her silence indicted Rosie, and she added, “But he asked me to marry him already. We’d be married.”
A smile tweaked the sister’s lips as she sat up. She held a white wool cardigan sweater and draped it over Rosie’s shoulders. “I can’t bear to see you shivering so.”
Rosie stared at her. Hazel eyes with flecks of gold, they bore a gentle humor.
“Please, just until you warm up.”
Rosie nodded, pulling the sweater around her. Warmth seeped into her.
“So, is your young man late?” the nun asked.
Rosie refused to voice her fears. “He’ll be here.” She played with a button on the sweater. “At least he told me he would. I—I hope he hasn’t left already.”
“Certainly he wouldn’t leave without his fiancée.”
“We’re not exactly engaged…yet. He asked me, but I haven’t agreed.”
“I see. But now you are ready to agree?”
Another man walked in, stood with his briefcase in the center of the room, then made his way back out to the ticketing area. She glanced at the clock. Five thirty.
“Yes,” she said. “I—I realize that I…”
“That you love him?” Sister smiled. “That God put you together?”
Rosie didn’t think God had anything to do with their match. In fact, she felt pretty sure He hadn’t been watching any of her activities of late. Still, this was a holy woman. “Perhaps. Guthrie is a good man. Kind. And he cares for me.”
“Those are the sort worth waiting for,” the sister said.
Rosie nodded, stifling a yawn.
“You look exhausted.”
“I was up all night.” She hoped the nun didn’t ask why, although it wouldn’t take much to do the math.
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