Baroness

by Susan May Warren

  He glanced at Pembrook, winked. “I’m still auditioning.”

  Same old Dash. She picked up her lemonade as his brandy appeared. “Here’s to Dash and his never-ending quest for the right girl.”

  She drank, but Dash held onto his glass, his smile falling. “Red. Don’t be like that. It wasn’t my fault things went sour between us.”

  She put down her lemonade. “Thanks for lunch, Blanche, but I am sure Guthrie’s in the fifth inning by now.”

  “Don’t go, Rosie.” The sincerity of Dash’s tone stopped her.

  She met his gaze. “Dash, believe it or not, I’m not just a good-time gal. I’m Guthrie’s lucky charm.”

  A muscle pulled in his jaw, and his smile vanished as she got up and worked her way outside. The heat hit her like a slap, but she stepped out onto the street, trying to find her bearings. How could she have let so much game time pass?

  She would have to take a cab. She motioned to the footman, intending to request a cab, when Dash pushed out of the doors behind her. “Red!”

  She didn’t turn. “Dashielle, really. I’m not angry—”

  He caught her arm. “But I am! You left Paris, never let me explain, never let me think about your offer—”

  “Would you have taken it? Please. I rue that day in the park. I just— I just thought we had something.”

  “We did have something.” His eyes were red. “We had more than something. And I was foolish to laugh at you.” He shook his head, his voice low. “Forgive me for hurting you, Red?”

  Oh, Dash. She’d lived with honesty for four years now and knew how to recognize it. “It’s okay, Dash. I’m happy. I married a man who I trust, who makes me feel beautiful.”

  “You are beautiful, Rosie.” He had her eyes now. “I wish you’d waited for me.”

  “I couldn’t wait. My mother wanted to marry me off to a duke.”

  “So you ran away with a baseball player instead?” His voice shook.

  “I fell in love with a baseball player.” She heard the words, smiled at the truth in them. Yes. She’d fallen terribly, deliciously in love with Guthrie Storme. And, she was missing his first home game. “I have to go, Dash.”

  “Let me drive you.”

  She considered him a moment, then nodded. He directed his footman to retrieve his car and she shouldn’t have been surprised when he took the driver’s seat of his sleek roadster, the red velvet seats embracing her as she settled inside. Oh, the plush comfort could make a girl lose herself in slumber. Five minutes in the heat and she turned into a rag, not to mention the baby banging around inside her. She made a face as he pressed into her ribs.

  “Are you in pain?” Dash eased out into traffic.

  “Sometimes.”

  “I should take you home.” He braked at a light and wore what looked like worry on his face.

  “I’m fine, Dash. Guthrie will be expecting me at his game.”

  “He wouldn’t want you to collapse, and you do look exhausted.”

  She pressed her hand to her forehead. “I hiked from 34th Street to Times Square.”

  He gave her a look that made her turn away in shame. “I’m taking you home. The game is about done anyway, I would wager.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s nearly four.”

  Had she truly sat in the restaurant for two hours? She leaned her head back against the seat. “I feel ill—”

  “Is it the baby?”

  The panic in his voice made her smile. “Calm down, Dash. I just meant that I’m sick to miss Guthrie’s game.”

  Dash said nothing.

  They drove down Broadway to Fifth Avenue, and an errant curiosity made her suggest they drive along the park. Dash pointed out all the current inhabitants, including Esme and Oliver’s house. “He’s never remarried. Lilly lives there with him, now. Writes a dreadful column for the paper each week.”

  “Dash!”

  He grinned at her. “I’m being kind, I promise.”

  She let herself smile. “Apparently Oliver finally found her, brought her home. He always wanted her to work for the paper. I always thought Lilly had more adventure in her though.”

  He turned off Fifth Avenue at the end of the park. “And I thought you had less of it in you.”

  She would take that as a compliment. “I live in Queens.”

  He took his time, weaving through East Harlem, then back through the upper East Side, pointing out the now closed Delmonico’s then driving over the 59th Street Bridge into Queens. She let the wind cool her, holding onto her hat with one hand. Dash drove her around the new Yankee Stadium on the other side of the river as she told him about life with the White Sox, Guthrie, finally weaving in the sordid incident with Cesar.

  “So, he said that if you ever return, he’d find you?”

  She managed a nod. “It’s been two weeks of looking over my shoulder, waiting for him to appear on my doorstep.”

  “Aw, Red, I’m sorry.”

  He slowed as they turned onto Elmhurst. The twilight draped long shadows across the streets, into the alcoves of the brownstones. She pointed out her building, and he pulled up to the curb. He jumped out, walked around to her side, and opened her door, helping her from the truck.

  She retrieved her key.

  “Wait here,” he said, taking it from her. He bounded up the steps then unlocked the door, easing it open and disappearing inside.

  When he returned he flicked on the outside light. It bathed the street in a wan, diffused glow. “All clear. No nasty mobster waiting to slit your throat.”

  She shook her head. “You’re mocking me,” she said.

  He came down the stoop, his smile gone. “I’m not mocking you, Red.” He pressed the key back into her hand then lifted her chin. “If you ever need anything—and I mean anything—come to me.” He met her eyes, and she saw in them an unfamiliar softness. “I told you once that I was halfway to falling in love with you. When you asked me to marry you, then left Paris brokenhearted, I realized that I was already there.”

  She swallowed, looked down, her eyes heating.

  He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Take care of yourself, Red.”

  Then he left her there on the curb, his roadster pulling away with a purr as the night fell around her. She was walking up the outside stairs, her hand around her key, when she saw him. Movement out of the corner of her eye, a man standing just outside the street light.

  A chill bled through her.

  But her eyes adjusted to the darkness. And—it was only Guthrie, his hair slick, wearing the suit he’d left in for the game. She raised her hand, a greeting on her lips, when she saw him turn.

  He walked away from her down the street and into the clasp of darkness.

  * * * * *

  Rennie had changed. Subtle edges to his personality, perhaps, but his jokes cut deeper, his laughter rang sharp and raucous, his eyes in hers glanced off, settling only occasionally to stab at her, as if trying to read her. He’d become jaded and sharp, and he dragged her back to Montparnasse, showing her off like some treasure he’d stolen.

  “I always knew Lola couldn’t live without me.” He draped an arm over her shoulder, pressed a kiss to her cheek, hot and lingering, so long that she pulled away. “Where have you been for four years? Breaking my heart?”

  His hair had thinned, his face drawn, his skin pale, probably from too many tight nights.

  “Actually…? I learned how to fly.”

  “Fly?” He rolled his eyes, smiling wildly. “As in airplanes?”

  “I was a wing walker with an air show, and I learned how to pilot a plane.”

  He laughed then, flapping his arms. “Lola of the skies.”

  She tried to keep the hurt out of her voice. “You were the one who started it. You said I belonged in the heavens.”

  He slid out of the booth. “I said a lot of things, Lilly. Not all of them are true.” He staggered, wobbly on his way to the bar where he leaned against it, gesturing to the keep.

&nb
sp; “He really did miss you,” Presley said. Lilly still couldn’t believe she’d seen Presley, like a fixture at the zinc bar, when she’d walked into the club. As if she’d faded back into time, complete with smoky music, flashy women with sequined and feather headbands, absinthe flowing like water—not a hint of prohibition this side of the ocean. Presley, too, seemed sharper, her hair redder, her body thinner, her smirks less generous. She wore a deeply V-d black dress with rosettes at the shoulders and a tight black cap on her head, her eyes so black they seemed to peer out with horror at Lilly across the table. “I don’t think he was prepared for you to break his heart.”

  Lilly traced her finger around the rim of her highball. She’d taken a sniff and her stomach lurched at the memory of the licorice touching her lips, swilling her stomach. “I think he was in love with a younger, more naïve version of me that he could impress.”

  Presley drew on her cigarette. “Did he?”

  “Impress me?” Lilly lifted a shoulder. “I’d never seen a bullfight before.”

  “You mean the bullfight between Ren and your father?” Presley giggled. “I thought your old man was going to sort him out right there. You should have seen the look he gave Rennie—he could have turned him to ash right there in the middle of the verandah. He told him that if Rennie had stolen your honor then he would be back and Rennie wouldn’t leave standing.” She leaned close, her eyes in Lilly’s. “He didn’t, did he?”

  Lilly shook her head, still caught in Presley’s words. “Oliver said that?”

  “Sat in the bar all night, nursing a lemonade, watching Rennie to make sure he didn’t sneak up to your room. I think Rennie was scared of him. I know I was.”

  Scared of Oliver? “Oliver wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  Presley tapped off her ash and lifted a shoulder. “Never know what a father will do for the daughter he loves.”

  Lilly had nothing for those words, letting them seep inside her. Oliver…loved her? Somewhere in the back of her heart she’d always thought he’d simply tolerated her, looked upon her as his responsibility, a byproduct of his marriage to her mother.

  Even if he had adopted her, he’d done it out of obligation, not love, right?

  But hearing it from someone else, not her cousin, or her grandfather, or even Oliver…

  “But now you’re back, and Rennie looks happy.” Presley grabbed Lilly’s hand. “Please tell me you’re staying.”

  Lilly stared into her glassy eyes. “I—I don’t know.” Paris had a way of making her forget, but despite the sultry jazz, the lure of adventure, she couldn’t break away from the sense that the woman she’d been four years ago had vanished.

  “Of course she’s staying!” Rennie came over, sliding into her booth, his arm around her shoulders.

  A couple of people she didn’t know scooted beside Presley. She noticed one of the men hung his arm around Presley’s shoulders. Presley looked up at him and smiled, too much hope in her eyes.

  Perhaps someone didn’t have to be young to be naïve.

  “I only came to do the story on Lindbergh,” Lilly said. His interview yesterday lingered inside her as she wrote the article. When she’d turned it in, only to have the Paris bureau telegraph it to New York, she almost didn’t recognize the writing.

  What had Oliver said about throwing passion into her writing? Lindbergh had given her that in his quiet, courageous demeanor, the way he explained his flight.

  “About halfway through the flight, in the dead of night, I found myself trying to climb through a patch of clouds. Sleet began to form on the wing and forced me down. I had to turn around to find a way through.”

  His words conjured up that day when she’d climbed out onto the wing with Truman on the way to Duluth.

  “I debated right then whether I should turn around and make another attempt. But I’d mapped it all out and I believed I could make it. I decided not to think any more about going back, that I must press on. A few hours later, I found Ireland.”

  She knew about pressing on, believing she could find a way through.

  “There’s power in commitment; it turns you into the man you hope to be. The man you can live with.”

  Lola the wing walker. There, on the edge of the plane, holding on to the wing wires with everything she had, she’d become the women she’d wanted to be.

  The woman her mother had been.

  Perhaps she could become who she was looking for. Perhaps that woman just waited for her to reach out, hold onto it, and not turn back.

  “No, Rennie, I’m not staying. I need to go home, where I belong.”

  “I think you belong here.” He winked at her, but she didn’t smile. He searched her eyes a moment then grinned, something sloppy and arrogant. “Would you like to see Paris at night?”

  She put her hand on his chest, pushing him away. “No, Rennie, I believe I already have. Once is enough.”

  Chapter 15

  She’d lost him.

  Rosie stood outside the Cotton Club, watching through the window as the rain pattered on the sidewalk, into her hair, through her cotton sweater.

  She ached, right down to her bones, from sitting in the chairs at the Polo Gardens cheering Guthrie to his first no-hitter. Except, sitting there, the tang of popcorn in the air, the smell of the dirt and sweat rising from the field, she didn’t feel like his lucky charm.

  She felt like something he dreaded. For two weeks—and she could pinpoint it to the day that she saw Dash, to the day when she got out of his shiny roadster, let him kiss her, that Guthrie had decided not to love her.

  She’d tried to explain, but Guthrie insisted that it didn’t matter, that he knew that Dash had meant nothing to her, that in fact, nothing had changed between them.

  But she knew. At night, he lay with his back to her, his body cold, his shoulders stiffening when she ran her hand down his arm. Twice last week after practice he’d stumbled home late, forbidden whiskey on his breath. And, when he left for a short road trip to Boston, he landed the merest peck on her cheek. She found no satisfaction that they’d lost half their games to the Braves. Most of all, he hadn’t even looked at her at today’s home game.

  She didn’t know if he saw her, or even if he knew she sat in the stands, cheering him on as she stood at the beginning of the game, smiling, waving.

  He pitched brilliantly, winning by one run over the Braves at home. As if, indeed, he’d seen her.

  She waited for him outside the stadium, on a bench, just like she had after his Yankees game so many years ago. Waited while the other players emerged from the locker room, freshly showered, opening their arms for their wives, their families.

  The players came out in groups—Jack and Mickey, catchers, and infielders Doc and Rogers, Tex and Edd, both outfielders. She lifted her hand to Buck, Smiley, Dutch, and Ned, who looked at her with a frown when they got into a hired car and motored away, probably heading for a club.

  She’d waited until night dropped around her, the skies opened up and cried. Until the janitors turned off the stadium lights. Until the Giants’ manager John “Muggsy” McGraw emerged from the darkness. She dredged up her courage and caught up to him.

  “Rosie, what are you doing out here in the rain?” Muggsy took off his hat, held it over her head.

  “Hey, Muggsy.” She ran her hands up her soggy arms. “I…have you seen Guthrie?”

  Muggsy stared at her with a frown. “Two hours ago. He left right after the game. Seemed to be in a hurry—he didn’t even shower.”

  Funny, he hadn’t even sent her out a note with one of the players to tell her to go home.

  “Do you know where he might have gone?”

  Muggsy walked her to the curb, hailed a cab. “I heard rumors of the fellas heading out to the Cotton Club up in Harlem. But you get on home now. The rain is no place for someone in your condition.”

  A cab pulled up and he opened the door, settled her into the backseat. She thanked him as he closed it then directed the cabbie to the
club.

  If he wouldn’t come to her, then she’d find him. Drag him home. Remind him that he had a family, a wife who loved him.

  She had something to give him now. A child.

  But, as she stood outside the club, the bright lights of the marquee listing Duke Ellington’s band and the Jubilee Jumpers, she couldn’t bear the scene she saw in her mind. Walking into the club, soggy, enormous, angry; while around her, thin, flashy women would be sidling up to him, cooing into his ear. In her worst nightmares, he ignored her, perhaps drew one of the flappers onto the dance floor.

  She’d been one of those flappers, once upon a time.

  She stared at the patrons standing under the awning, their coats wrapped around them as drivers bearing umbrellas fetched them to their vehicles. Music twined out, and she had no doubt that inside she’d find a back room flowing with bootlegged whiskey.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” A young footman—he resembled Cesar in too many ways, groomed dark hair, Italian-accented English— approached her. “Perhaps hail you a cab?”

  She pressed her fingers to her eyes, glad that she hadn’t applied much kohl, aware that every day she became larger she lost a little bit more of her glamour. “Yes, please.”

  She climbed into the cab and directed him toward Queens, staring out the window as the rain slid down the dark pane, the bright lights of Harlem turning the world fuzzy. What if he never came back? What if she had lost him? She knew the stories about other ballplayers, the ones who had a lady in every city. Worse were the ones who quit after their baseball career dried up, unable to face a life without the game they loved.

  What would she do without Guthrie? Return home?

  She ran her hand over her belly. She didn’t care what it took, she’d find a way to win back Guthrie’s heart.

  The cab pulled up to her brownstone and she paid him, climbed out. The house seemed dark, even unfriendly, the windows unseeing, the porch light off. Her footsteps echoed across the pavement as she climbed the stairs, pulling out her key.

  Except…except the door stood ajar, the faintest crack betraying it. She put her hand on the handle, her chest full. “Guthrie!”