“It can’t be!”
The voice startled her, and she looked for the source. For a moment, she didn’t recognize him, not with the scar along his chin. But the dark smudge of a smile hadn’t dimmed from her memory, nor his green eyes and the power they once had to turn her inside out, steal her thoughts.
“Rennie?”
“Lilly Hoyt, what are you doing here?”
She had no words for this, not sure where to even start. He parted his way through the crowd and offered his hand and she took it, rough as it was in her grip. She’d forgotten the feel of a pilot’s hands, the chips and digs in his skin from his hours overhauling his plane. Truman had those hands.
“Ray, come and see who I found!” He turned toward the door to the weather office. An older woman wearing jodhpurs sauntered in from the next room.
Ray? The woman looked familiar. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember—”
“Baroness Raymonde. I’m one of the flyers here at Le Bourget. Are you here for the flight?”
“I’m a reporter—yes, but—”
“And she’s come back to me!” Rennie nudged Ray out of the way. “Remember her, Ray? She went to the bullfights with me and Presley in Spain.” Around her, others had turned to watch. Probably they could see her face flaming. He wore a sleek leather jacket, longer than Truman’s, a white scarf at his neck, derby cocked on his head. As he leaned close, she caught a whiff of something from the past, absinthe, perhaps, and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke lifting into the wind. He remembered her too, his gaze upon her familiar, even intimate.
“I always knew you’d come back to Rennie, ma chérie,” he said, and winked. “I’ve missed you so.”
* * * * *
Rosie just knew that any day, she’d come home to their little flat in Queens and find Cesar on her doorstep, ready to make good on his dark promise. Every time she opened the door and stood in the quiet hallway of their three-room apartment, her heartbeat thundering in her chest, she listened for his breathing, searched the air for the aroma of his Cubans.
It was only a matter of time.
Her fight with Guthrie still had the power to stop her cold, shake tears from her. I want more for you than this pitiful apartment in the middle of Chicago! Pitching for the Yankees means a better life for both of us.
You just want to be a star. You don’t care if it’s going to get us both killed!
He’d winced, and she longed to yank back her words.
No, if she hadn’t wanted to be a star, maybe she wouldn’t have fallen for Cesar, let him dig his claws into her life.
Yet again, perhaps she would never have had to escape with Guthrie, and found this surprising place of joy.
I’ll keep you safe, he’d said when he’d shown her their new apartment, the locks he installed on the front door. Such a smile on his face when he walked into the big white kitchen then opened the door to two tiny back bedrooms. One for Charlie.
The place came with a postage stamp–sized, weed-riddled courtyard in back where he’d found a secondhand table and chairs, and a front bay window off the family room. In the morning, the sun turned the hardwood floors a rosy gold.
She set her groceries on the kitchen table and slid onto a chair. Her legs hurt, and her entire body had turned into an incubator. What she wouldn’t give for a day at the sea, at her mother’s estate in Newport, lounging on the patio chairs, a cold lemonade at her merest beckoning.
She unbuttoned her shirtwaist, letting the collar hang open, got up, and wandered over to the fan, turning it on. The blades churned the air, and she leaned into it, letting the whir fill her thoughts, settle a cool breeze over her body.
Two weeks since she’d returned to New York City, and she still hadn’t the courage to track down her mother. Because that would mean an apology. And introducing Jinx to her husband.
She couldn’t bear to put Guthrie through that, to hear the disdain in her mother’s voice. He isn’t our set, Rosie.
Maybe not. But maybe she didn’t want to belong to that set anymore. Maybe…maybe she’d found a better set, a new place to belong.
It didn’t keep her from wanting to see Finn, however. Maybe after the baby was born she might introduce the child to his or her uncle. This little one might bring reconciliation to them all.
The baby turned inside her and she pressed her hand against her stomach, sitting down on the sofa. Maybe she’d just put her feet up for a moment, lean her head back. A few moments’ rest before Guthrie’s game this afternoon.
The noon chime woke her and Rosie blinked her eyes open, a chill running over her from the breath of the fan as she found her bearings.
Guthrie’s game started in an hour; he would already be looking for her in the stands. She splashed water on her face then tidied her hair and pulled on a long-waisted dress that stretched over her belly. One glance in the mirror told her she looked like a seal, bleached and dragged in from the sea.
A fine sweat filmed her back as she tucked on a canvas cloche hat, an orange silk pansy in the brim. Then, picking up her fan and her handbag, she locked the door.
She had a vague recollection of how to find the Polo Grounds in Manhattan where the Giants played, but Guthrie’s directions tangled in her thoughts, a product of the heat and fatigue.
She got on the Roosevelt Avenue Corona Line at Elmhurst Avenue, rode it through Long Island City, over the East River, through the 60th St. Tunnel until she saw the signs for Fifth Avenue.
Fifth Avenue, across from Central Park, where she’d grown up in the Worth family chateau. Oliver and Esme had owned a home just down the street before her mother had sold the estate and moved into rooms farther down on Fifth Avenue, in the Warren and Wetmore Building.
Lilly might have married, maybe even lived in one of the gallant houses on Fifth. I’ll forgive you someday... Lilly’s words on the boat so long ago could still brush tears into her eyes. Please, Lilly. Be happy.
The urge to disembark at Fifth pulsed inside Rosie until the doors closed and the train rumbled forward, the curtains at the windows shivering with the movement.
Guthrie would be looking for her, needing her smile as he took the mound.
She thought she remembered him saying this line turned north, toward Harlem and the Washington Heights district where the Giants played. It took her two stops before she realized the train had veered onto Broadway, passing 48th Street, then Times Square.
As she read the electronic marquees, her chest tightened. She needed to get off, perhaps take a taxi down to the stadium.
She checked her watch. The game had started five minutes ago.
She got off at the next stop—34th Street, and stood on the sidewalk, smelling the exhaust of the Packards, the Fords, listening to the buzz of the city wheedle through her. She’d forgotten the electric hum of the city, the fragrances of the bakeries, the sound of horses and pedestrians and buses. A fever flowed through Manhattan different from that of Chicago. Almost an anticipation, even an arrogance.
How many times had she traveled down Broadway in her mother’s Duisenberg, watching the peasants disembark from the train?
A florist had set up a stand on the sidewalk, hawking roses and peonies, lilies and tulips. Next to him, a newsie held up a paper from his stack, announcing the headlines.
She paid him a nickel and read the headline. LINDBERGH DOES IT! TO PARIS IN 33 ½ HOURS; FLIES 1,000 MILES THROUGH SNOW AND SLEET; CHEERING FRENCH CARRY HIM OFF FIELD. PARIS BOULEVARDS RING WITH CELEBRATION AFTER DAY AND NIGHT WATCH. She read the masthead and found Oliver and Esme’s names, and on the article the initials at the byline made her smile. L. J. Hoyt.
So Lilly hadn’t married. But she’d managed to fill her mother’s shoes. Perhaps she would finally forgive Rosie. Perhaps both their lives had turned out exactly as they should be.
Rosie looked up and found herself on the corner of 40th Street. She stopped for a moment on the edge of the theater district. Ahead, the marquees of the Majestic Theater and t
he Gallo Opera House beckoned, the old pulse inside her pushing her forward. She stood across the street from Times Square, voices in her head.
You, a star? Dashielle’s laughter that night in Paris.
I’ll make you my headliner. Cesar’s voice, dark and too alluring in those early days.
A playbill tumbled by on the wind and she stamped her foot on it, reading the name. Tommy, performed at the Gaiety Theater at 46th and Broadway.
She would like to see that.
She checked her watch again. Even if Guthrie hadn’t taken the mound, he would be searching for her from the dugout. But she needed to sit, perhaps drink some water before she found her way back to the subway. Already, she ached all the way through to her bones, and Charlie wasn’t helping, the way he moved as if anxious to get to the game.
A red canopy over a nearby restaurant suggested shade, and she wandered over and settled down on the bench by the door. A doorman gave her a look but she leaned back, closing her eyes, fanning herself.
The smells drifted out—roast pork slathered in rosemary and garlic, new potatoes in butter, dark red wine—perhaps she just imagined it all, but she could nearly taste the meal. How long had it been since she’d dined out?
“Rosie Worth?”
The voice roused her out of her hunger, her fatigue, and she managed to open her eyes.
“Blanche?”
She looked every bit as beautiful and daring and flamboyant as she had the day Rosie left her in Paris, with siren-blond hair, those green eyes, sharp and bright, missing nothing. She wore a rose-colored linen dress with a low sash, and a gray low-brimmed hat, a satin ribbon around the brim, and three strands of pearls at her neck. Her kohled eyes scraped over Rosie, her lips a perfect surprising pout of shock, traced in lipstick so red they glistened like blood. Had Rosie even remembered lipstick? Her hand nearly went to her mouth to check.
“It is you. Oh my.” Blanche slid down onto the bench beside her. “What are you doing outside Sardis? And…” Her gaze trailed down to Rosie’s protruding belly. “In such a condition? Why aren’t you home, in bed, or perhaps down in Newport, and out of this heat?” Blanche looked closer, her voice dropping. “You’re sweating, dear. And you don’t look well. Who are you waiting for?” Her gaze dropped to Rosie’s finger. “And who on earth did you marry?”
Rosie slipped her hand over her plain gold band, her own gaze darting to the glittering stone on Blanche’s finger. “Who did you marry?”
“Why, Pembrook, of course.” She glanced away from Rosie, toward the restaurant. “In fact, I’m meeting him for lunch. Why don’t you join us?”
Oh. “I…can’t. My husband has a game.” Funny to say that out loud, a sentence that had come so easily to her in the past three years. Now it seemed out of place, even vulgar. Indeed, Blanche raised a perfectly penciled eyebrow.
“What kind of game?”
“He plays baseball. For the Giants.”
Blanche said nothing for a long moment, just swallowed, and her smile seemed tugged out from some place of shock. “Baseball?”
“He’s a pitcher. Today’s his first home game. He was traded from the White Sox in Chicago a few weeks ago.”
“So that’s where you’ve been? Chicago?” Blanche shook her head. “Darling, no wonder we haven’t seen you. Chicago! A mobster’s city from what I hear.” She hooked her arm through Rosie’s. “You look positively peaked. Let us lunch and you can catch us all up.”
“Us?”
“Me and Pem…and we expect Dash, also.”
Dash. The name jolted her forward, sizzled inside her. Dash.
You’re my good-time girl. But I don’t want to get married.
She settled a hand over her stomach. “I don’t think—”
“I absolutely insist.” Blanche rose, pulling Rosie to her feet. “At least a lemonade, okay? My treat.”
She wasn’t sure if Blanche had quickly assessed her financial situation or simply wanted to be generous, but the kindness of her friend wooed Rosie into the cool interior of Sardis.
The place reminded her of Delmonico’s, with the white tablecloths, the bright lamplights, and the clientele—men in suits and ties discussing business, women from the upper Eastside decked out in pearls and gloves, the latest hats, cool dropped-waist dresses. White-gloved waiters moved in and out of the tables carrying salads and luncheon plates.
Charlie kicked her empty stomach.
Blanche waved to someone across the room and Rosie followed her gaze to Pembrook. He met Blanche’s wave with a smile. And then his gaze landed on Rosie.
She hadn’t expected to appear so much different that she would elicit such a look of shock on Pembrook’s lean face. He too appeared older, his brown hair thinner on top, perhaps more tone and confidence to his body as he stood and walked out to greet them.
“Look who I picked up off the street!” Blanche said.
She didn’t have to phrase it quite that way. But Rosie urged out a smile. “Pem.” She leaned in for his kiss on her cheek.
“Rosie, you look—”
“Enormous,” Blanche said, giggling, and Rosie shot her a glare. “I can’t help it. It’s just…well, most women would be at home in this state.” Blanche sat down as Pembrook held her chair. She tugged off her gloves. “But apparently this isn’t our little Rosie from Paris.” She leaned toward Pembrook as he held out the chair for Rosie. “She’s run off with a baseball player!”
Did she have to phrase it like that? “Shh, Blanche.”
“Really?” Pembrook said, sitting down. He still had his gaze on her, as if he’d never seen a pregnant woman in public. Rosie grabbed her napkin and draped it over her belly. “Did you marry a Yankee?”
“He plays for the Giants.” Rosie didn’t look at her watch. “Right now, in fact. I’m missing his game.”
“But I convinced her to dine with us,” Blanche said, wrapping her hand around Rosie’s wrist. “We all need to catch up! Wait until I tell you about the wedding.”
Blanche raised her hand to summon the waiter and launched into the story.
Pembrook played with his fork, stealing glances at Rosie.
Rosie ordered lemonade, sipping it slowly, and then allowed Blanche to add a salad.
Second inning, for sure. If she didn’t show up by the fourth, she might as well not go at all.
Her salad appeared, and she tried not to devour it. But when she looked up at Blanche’s silence she realized she’d been inhaling her food. “The baby makes me hungry.”
Blanche leaned back, her Waldorf salad half-eaten, and pulled out a cigarette. “Really, Rosie, I never thought I’d see you like this.” She lit it, blew out smoke. “Somehow when you returned to New York, I thought I’d see your name on the marquee of the Majestic.”
Rosie put down her fork, wiped her mouth, the salad filling the crannies in her stomach. “I found something better,” she said, the words settling inside, deep and true.
Blanche quirked an eyebrow, glanced at Pem.
But his gaze fell beyond them and he raised his hand, waving.
Rosie steeled herself a moment before she turned.
He’d only grown more handsome. Taller, his dark hair clipped tight to his head, those smoky eyes dark and with a hint of danger, his smile at an angle that suggested he knew the game and how to play it. He wore a black suit, a matching black tie, and a white dress shirt, and she could smell his exotic French cologne from across the room.
Slick. Polished. Dashielle Parks.
Dash’s gaze landed on Rosie and he slowed for a moment, clearly rattled.
She smiled at that. It raked up the old Rosie, the one who had once made him chase her across Paris, the one who knew how to walk into a room and elicit the attention of every man. She lifted her chin and extended her hand. “Dashielle Parks. What a pleasure.”
He ran a hand down his suit, smoothing his tie, a perfect smile forming on his lips. “Red Worth.” Then he took her hand, bent and kissed it.
She expected some tingles perhaps, warmth at his touch, but even as he stood and surveyed her with those burning eyes, she let Guthrie walk into her thoughts.
Guthrie, blond and passionate, with his easy smile, the way he could turn her world safe.
“Rosie Storme,” she corrected for him.
He said nothing, nonplussed, then nodded. “Of course.” His gaze traveled to her shape. “Congratulations?”
“Indeed,” she said, and allowed him to tuck her back into her chair.
He greeted Pem and Blanche then sat down, angling his chair toward her, his legs crossed. A waiter came over and he ordered a brandy, turning down a menu. “I already ate.” He pulled out his cigarette case and retrieved a Pall Mall, tapping it on the end of the slim silver box. “Married. With child. What other surprises does Rosie have for us?”
“She married a ballplayer,” Blanche supplied.
Dash lit his cigarette. “No wonder I didn’t see your name in lights when I returned from Paris.”
Had he looked for her? She shook away the thought.
“I was going to be a headliner at Valerie’s. And then I met Guthrie.”
“Swept you off your feet?” Dash wore mocking at the corners of his mouth.
“Something like that.” She refused to allow his ridicule and put on her best society girl, leaning forward to nestle her chin into her hand, her elbow perched on the table. “But enough about me. Dash, please tell me you’re not a banker.”
Blanche giggled. “Heavens, no! Dash is making moving pictures.”
Rosie kept her smile.
Dash’s gaze upon her never wavered, his eyes so dark they seemed to pin her. “I came back to New York looking for you, Red. Thought we could make a splash out West, in California.”
“You’re making movies?” She kept her voice cool.
He flicked off his ash onto Blanche’s plate. “I’m financing movies. But I have my say.” He smiled again, something she’d seen before. “For the right girl.”
She didn’t have to work hard to read between his words. For my girl. The good-time girl, the one who swooned at the very mention of his name.
She leaned back, wiping her mouth. “Have you found her?”
Baroness Page 26