Vixen

by Jillian Larkin

  “Wow. My head feels so much lighter. Is that normal?” Gloria asked nervously, smoothing her hair down with her hand.

  Her bare left hand.

  Lorraine gasped. “Why aren’t you wearing your engagement ring?”

  The color drained from Gloria’s cheeks. “I must have forgotten to put it back on after—”

  “After we went swimming yesterday!” Marcus was all too quick to fill in.

  Lorraine frowned. “Gloria, you went to the library with me after school yesterday, remember? Unless the Oak Lane Country Club pool was suddenly open after five for the first time since Roosevelt was president.” A thought that haunted Lorraine’s nightmares came to her: “Are—are you two having an affair?”

  “No!” Gloria and Marcus exclaimed simultaneously.

  “That’d be like dating my brother,” Gloria said, horrified.

  François clucked like a French chicken. “I think I’ll give this ménage à trois some space, non?” He ambled away.

  Lorraine sat in the empty swivel chair next to Gloria. “Spill,” she commanded. “I need to know everything.”

  “All right,” Gloria said, extending her pinkie finger. “But first you have to swear you won’t tell.”

  Lorraine groaned. “Are we still going to be pinkie-swearing after you’re married?” She hooked her finger with Gloria’s and kissed the end. “Fine, I swear.”

  “Okay, so you know how my cousin is coming to ‘help out,’ thanks to the genius idea of my mother? Well, she is a total reuben—I mean, she’s basically never left her hometown in the backwoods of Pennsylvania. Last I heard, she wants to be a schoolteacher. Maybe even a nun.”

  “A schoolteaching nun!” Marcus exclaimed. “The horror!”

  “The last time she visited, she barely did anything but read Darwin’s Origin of Species the entire time,” Gloria said. “So we tried to get her to at least go with us to the movies, and she said she wasn’t allowed to because, get this—” Gloria rolled her eyes. “Because her parents think the movies are immoral.”

  At that, the three of them laughed so loudly that one of the old men at the front of the shop said, “I say! You three keep it down a little!”

  Lorraine was confused. “What does any of this have to do with your missing ring?” She was tired of being a third wheel to Marcus and Gloria’s antics.

  Gloria began slowly. “Because last night was my last chance for fun before the nun arrives, so—”

  “We snuck out under cover of darkness, and we intrepidly made our way into the big, bad city, where we went to the Green Mill—”

  “And it turns out not to be green at all. The only thing green in it—”

  “Was our dear Miss Carmody here, and not just because she can’t quite handle her liquor.” Marcus grimaced. “Men threw themselves at her. Bodily. But every single one of them crashed against the rocks—I mean, the rock—on her finger.”

  “Which is why I had to take off my ring!” Gloria finished with a small clap of her hands. “Not because I am interested in other men, but—”

  “I beg your pardon? Stop.” Lorraine didn’t know where to begin with her questions. Not only had her best friend gone to the Green Mill without her, but she’d gone with Marcus instead? Lorraine felt like ripping the newly shortened hair right out of Gloria’s head.

  But Marcus was there, and she wanted him to think she was … nice. So she smiled sweetly and said, “I mean, you set foot in the Green Mill dressed like—like you normally dress?”

  “You’re wondering why they even let her through the door,” Marcus said, patting down his hair. “Doubtless it was the handsome devil at her elbow.”

  “Hardly!” Gloria said. “Anyway, it was mortifying. I looked like such a bluenose. And that is why we now have to go back lickety-split, so that this time I can actually show my face. Proudly. Oh, and you can come with us, of course.”

  “And we mustn’t forget dear Country Clara,” Marcus added.

  Gloria let out a little huff of disgust. “She would probably run off to the convent forever if she even heard us mention the Green Mill, let alone actually usher her through its doors.”

  “Precisely!” he said roguishly. “One prissy toe of hers in the Green Mill, and she’ll be scampering to catch the next train back to Hicksville.”

  A wicked grin spread across Gloria’s face. “Tell me more.”

  “So I was thinking,” Marcus continued, working the pomade into his hair, “that I, say, make Country Clara fall in love with me—”

  “And then you break her like a twig!” Lorraine offered. “I mean, in a nice way.”

  “It seems Miss Dyer and I are in agreement,” Marcus said, winking at her. Lorraine could have swooned.

  “I don’t know,” Gloria said, tilting her head and watching her hair move in the mirror. “Doesn’t that seem excessively cruel? Even for you, Marcus.”

  “What is cruel, my little red morning glory, is that your cousin is here to ruin your life before—”

  “Before Bastian does!” Lorraine chimed in.

  “I was going to say before your wedding. And besides, the girls around here are such a bore. Some fresh blood will really spice up my game. I know you think I’m horrid, but it’s true. Dating is like a sport, and as with every sport … practice makes perfect.”

  “Now I’m beginning to see why Columbia accepted you.” Gloria leaned forward and ruffled Marcus’s unmoving hair. “Besides the building named after your father, that is.”

  Lorraine closed her eyes, wishing she were the one running her fingers through Marcus’s golden locks.

  “Normally I wouldn’t approve of such a cruel plan,” Gloria mused, “but Clara is an absolute bore. The last thing I want is for her to ruin my wedding.” She extended her hand and shook Marcus’s. “I applaud your plan, Mr. Eastman. Let’s get Clara out of here for good!”

  “Hear, hear!” Marcus said, turning to Lorraine. “Raine? You in?”

  Am I ever, Lorraine thought. Everything began to crystallize: She would help Marcus with his plan to break Clara’s heart. Only, really, she would be working to make Marcus fall in love with her. Against the risqué background of a speakeasy, the stage would be set for romantic sparks to fly. Their love would bloom, and they would head off to New York City in the summer. Together.

  It was foolproof.

  Lorraine took Gloria’s hand and, along with Marcus, headed for the door.

  In that moment, with her best friend and her future husband close to her side, Lorraine was happier than she’d been in ages. Everything seemed about to turn around. And in her favor, for once.

  GLORIA

  Gloria was hungry. She focused on cutting her crab-stuffed mushroom into tiny pieces, avoiding eye contact with everyone at the dining room table. She could feel all their judgmental stares—her mother’s, cousin’s, and fiance’s—burning a hole through her bob.

  The events of the afternoon had transpired as follows:

  She arrived home from the barber, sneaking in through the kitchen, where she surprised her mother, who was busy evaluating the dinner menu.

  Her mother’s scream at Gloria’s appearance deafened every living creature within a twenty-block radius of their house.

  Mrs. Carmody then ordered the maids to call for a wig maker, whereupon Gloria suggested they build a bonfire in her mother’s tomato garden so that she could not only burn the wig, but also every corset in the house.

  This prompted her mother to threaten to cancel dinner with Bastian, to which Gloria replied: “Why don’t we just cancel the wedding while we’re at it?”

  And then her mother slapped her. Hard.

  This would all have been unpleasant but entirely tolerable, even expected, had Country Cousin Clara not suddenly intervened. The girl pertly suggested that Gloria be sent to her room. Gloria had never been sent to her room before! The absolute gall that girl had—Clara was worse than Gloria’s own mother.

  And now here they all were at the din
ing table, nibbling appetizers and faking civility like one happy family. What a bunch of top-shelf hooey.

  Bastian had yet to say a word. He just glowered as if he were going to lunge across the table, knock aside the Venetian glass vase of white tulips, and strangle her with his bare hands. Weirdly, that thought was kind of exciting—she had never seen him this heated before. In the past, he’d always been so stable, so predictable. So dull.

  Why had she ever found him appealing? Sure, on the surface she was just a prim prep school girl, but she had hidden depths. Did Bastian?

  Probably not. He’d been the same way since the day they’d met at the Art Institute of Chicago’s annual gala.

  Tired of making awkward cocktail conversation, Gloria had slipped away from the party, wandering around and eventually finding herself in an empty side gallery, filled with a new collection of Impressionist works.

  Gloria had been lost in a small Degas pastel of a young woman bathing when a deep voice pierced the silence of the room. “She has your hair.” Gloria had turned. “Only, yours is much more beautiful.”

  The young man was staggeringly handsome, charming, and—as it turned out—from one of Chicago’s oldest and most impressive families. Her parents definitely approved.

  Their romance unfolded over the summer: Bastian wooed her and Gloria let herself be wooed. After all, he was everything she was supposed to want in a man. Plus, every other Chicago girl longed for him, which only made him more desirable. At the end of August he proposed on his father’s yacht, against the backdrop of a glorious Lake Michigan sunset, and their engagement was soon announced in the Chicago Tribune—just in time for the first day of Gloria’s senior year.

  But they had nothing in common. They rarely spoke about anything other than what Bastian wanted to discuss—finance, politics, other boring things. And perhaps most importantly, when he kissed her there was no heat. The kisses were soft, simple pecks. Where was the fire? The passion? When Lorraine spoke about Frenching boys, she made it sound so … marvelous.

  Would Gloria ever feel marvelous about Bastian? Would she ever feel faint when he walked into a room, the way she’d felt when she’d seen Jerome Johnson?

  Gloria looked around the table. Time to break the ice. Maybe she could shift the focus to Clara, who at the very least could bore them all to death.

  Gloria rested her knife delicately along the edge of her plate. “So, Clara, what have you been doing with yourself since graduation? You’ve been out of school since last June, right? Almost four months.”

  Everyone turned to Clara expectantly as she froze, her fork suspended in midair. “Um, let’s see, I’ve been—”

  “Why don’t we let your cousin enjoy her dinner in peace tonight?” Mrs. Carmody said with an air of discomfort. “She must be awfully tired after such a long journey.”

  Gloria waved her hand. “She just came off a luxury train, not a wagon train.”

  “Gloria Carmody, where are your manners this evening!”

  The words came out before Gloria could hold them back: “I must have left them in the barbershop, Mother.”

  “If only your father were here!” Mrs. Carmody said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. Then she turned to Bastian. “Mr. Carmody would be here if he weren’t traveling so much for business.” She glanced at Gloria’s hair. “Although perhaps his absence is for the best. He would be appalled to see you like this, Gloria.”

  Bastian smirked. “What a wise woman you are, Mrs. Carmody.”

  Actually, Gloria was thankful for her father’s absence. The last thing the dinner table needed was another conservative, old-fashioned, disapproving man. “Clara?” she said a bit sharply, turning to her cousin once again.

  Clara fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat. “Oh, my recent activities don’t make for terribly interesting dinner conversation, I’m afraid.”

  “Nonsense!” Bastian chimed in. “We are all ears.” He cupped his hands on either side of his head and turned on his movie-star smile.

  Gloria knew this was his way of being “silly” and “charming.” His brilliant teeth were bared, a bit of white sleeve peeked from the dark cuffs of his suit, and his eyes were bright with merriment. But Gloria knew he was mocking her.

  Mrs. Carmody tittered.

  Gloria wanted to punch them both. Instead, she watched Clara blink a few times and start to speak: “Golly, let’s see. Primarily, I have been … helping my father in the church and my mother on the farm. I most enjoy waking at four-thirty a.m. to milk the cows. I find it both physically rigorous and emotionally intimate. It’s just me, the sunrise, and the cow. And the glory of a hard day’s work.”

  Gloria almost snorted her water. She waited for Clara to start laughing and say she was only joking, but her cousin didn’t crack a smile.

  “That’s not the only thing I enjoy, of course,” Clara added.

  It was a wonder the girl could speak at all, what with her blouse buttoned up so high. It was easily the ugliest blouse Gloria had seen in ages: yellow, dripping with lace, and with a tall, stiff collar that even her grandmother would have sneered at. “I also love the volunteer work I do in the pediatric ward of the local hospital.”

  “Pediatric ward?” Gloria repeated. Was this girl serious?

  “Sick and dying children,” Clara said, narrowing her eyes. “You’d be amazed at how many children take ill and just waste away. I tend to them as they give up the ghost.”

  “Why, Clara, I had no idea!” Gloria’s mother said, her expression a mixture of shock and delight.

  Gloria stared her cousin down. “What about for fun, Clara? Don’t tell me you’re really that saintly.”

  “Oh, hardly. Sometimes during weekends I take my favorite nag, Ginger, out for a ride.” Clara paused and frowned. “Seeing you, Gloria, only makes me miss her that much more.”

  Gloria cocked her head. “And why is that?”

  “Because Ginger is the exact same color as your hair.”

  “Perhaps, Clara, when you came here, Gloria should have taken your place in the country,” Bastian suggested, pushing his dark hair back off his forehead. He certainly is handsome, Gloria reminded herself. “Your exemplary lifestyle could have prevented this … this …”

  “This what, Bastian?” Gloria asked. “I’m dying to hear what improvements you think country life could work upon me.”

  Bastian pounded his fist on the table. “This … atrocity!”

  Gloria wanted to scream. Did Bastian think he was her fiancé or her father? She glowered at her cousin’s cherubic little face. But wait, wasn’t Clara’s golden, baby-fine hair remarkably shorter, too? Didn’t it look like—well, a grown-out bob? “If you think my hair is such an atrocity, Bastian, then what do you think of Clara’s? It’s barely longer than my own.”

  Mrs. Carmody dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “I think it’s time for the main course,” she said, signaling the family butler, Archibald.

  Bastian glared at Gloria. “I’m not talking about Clara—”

  “It’s all right, Bastian—Gloria has a point,” Clara chimed in, shyly tucking her hair behind her ears. She seemed nervous for a moment, but then a visible calm washed over her face. The corners of her lips rose.

  “She does?” Mrs. Carmody asked.

  “Yes. Except, my intention was never to look like a flapper, of course,” Clara explained. “I cut my hair off a few months ago in order to donate it to charity—so that a natural wig can be made for a woman who has lost her hair due to illness. The children at the hospital inspired me.” With a smirk that only Gloria seemed to notice, Clara swigged a mouthful of milk.

  “What a good Samaritan you are, Clara!” Bastian said. “Truly a model for us all!”

  Was no one else sick of this girl? Gloria wanted to tell her cousin a thing or two about charity, but she couldn’t risk any further punishment. Both her mother and Clara would be watching her, and she was determined to sneak out to the Green Mill again.

  She had to f
ind some way to return—if only to prove to herself that she had no interest in Jerome Johnson. That she’d been moved by his music and nothing more. Her attraction to him—if it was that!—had clearly been a result of the booze. And the taboo color of his skin. And how insolent he’d been. And those roving hands …

  “Yes, Clara, you are indeed a model for us all,” Gloria said. “My fiancé is right, as always.”

  “Well, I don’t know about always,” Bastian said with mock humility, sitting up a little straighter. “But certainly very often.”

  Men are so easy sometimes, Gloria thought. All they need is a little coddling and they’re eating out of your hand. Which gave her an idea.

  She didn’t have a natural spark with Bastian the way she did with Jerome. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t make one, right? After all, every fire had to start with dry wood.

  Gloria listened and laughed but remained silent all the way through the canapé of anchovies, the cream of celery soup, the asparagus tips au gratin, the boeuf bourguignon. By the time everyone was devouring the last crumbs of their red velvet cake, she had devised the perfect plan: She would seduce her own fiancé.

  Gloria and Bastian sat at opposite ends of the silk love seat in the drawing room. The rest of the dinner party had retired, leaving the couple to themselves.

  Just sitting there, Gloria felt restless. The heavy brass chandeliers above her head seemed to weigh on her. The dust from the pleated taffeta curtains made her skin crawl.

  “You seem so far away over there,” she said, sliding over to Bastian and settling against his muscular body. She crossed her legs so that the tops of her knees were exposed. “There. That’s much better.”

  “We’ve been sitting with each other all night, Gloria,” he said, readjusting himself to accommodate her weight as she leaned against him.

  “But I couldn’t do this to you before.” She placed her hand on top of his, which rested on his thigh. His hands were almost twice the size of hers. As she slid her fingers between his, the dark hands of another man crept into her mind. The long fingers that had tickled the keys and taken her breath away.