Vixen

by Jillian Larkin

  Obviously Vera had no interest in hiding her claws.

  “Ha, ha,” Gloria said. “I was about to put on my dress when—”

  “When your worst nightmare walked right on in?”

  Right. This girl did not back down. Gloria ignored her and opened the dress bag. It was satisfying to see Vera’s eyes widen as Gloria extracted her gown. It had taken Gloria two full weeks of scouring the racks of the city’s tony dressmakers to find the perfect debut outfit; she’d even skipped a European history exam to get it altered at a tailor’s in Chinatown. It was one of a kind: hand-sewn and fresh from Paris, a rich deep green covered in dazzling emerald sequins. Its scooped neck revealed her collarbone and a white swatch of skin above her breasts, which she’d wrapped and flattened. Finishing it off were a green headband with an enormous cloth flower, a single bangle, and a double strand of pearls she’d liberated from her mother’s jewelry box.

  “That must have cost you a pretty penny,” Vera said, fingering the beadwork. “How does a girl from some little country town afford this kind of fancy?”

  “It’s on loan,” Gloria lied, trying to steady her hands as she traced her eyes in black kohl. “From a friend.”

  “Didn’t you just move here?” Vera didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t know what kind of ‘friends’ you been making, but I hope you don’t consider my brother one of them.”

  “You know full well that Jerome—I mean, that Mr. Johnson and I have a strictly professional relationship.”

  “Then why’d you just look so hot and bothered when I mentioned him?”

  “Are you trying to tell me something?” Gloria asked, surprising herself. “Or are you just trying to be a bitch?”

  Vera broke into a half-impressed smile. “Both.”

  “Why don’t you like me?” Gloria wasn’t perfect, but people had always liked her.

  “I don’t like you for my brother. I see how you look at him. Don’t do anything stupid like fall in love with him. Or else.”

  Gloria felt her cheeks pinking. “Or else … what?”

  “Baby, you don’t even want to go down that road with me.”

  Just then, the boy in question barged in.

  Jerome looked positively debonair. He was holding two cups of champagne, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, a black bow tie loose around his neck. He was wearing an untucked, unbuttoned shirt, revealing his tight white undershirt. Gloria sucked in a sharp breath. And she’d thought musicians were supposed to be scrawny.

  “I need a moment with our singer before we go on,” Jerome said, frowning at Vera. He didn’t seem particularly happy to see her. “Alone.”

  Gloria realized that she was basically nude. “Get out!” she yelled, shielding her chest with her arms and turning toward the wall. “I’m not dressed!”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t look,” Jerome said, covering his eyes. Only Gloria could see that he was smiling.

  Vera pushed her brother through the door. “Wait outside until I call you back. And don’t you dare come in until I do.” She slammed the door and clapped her hands together. “Come on, girl, we don’t have time to waste.”

  “Thanks, but I can finish up by myself,” Gloria said.

  “You’re stupider than I thought,” Vera said. She picked up the green dress. “Did you look at the hooks and eyes on this fancy dress you bought? Ain’t no way you’re going to be able to fasten that on your own.”

  Gloria remembered the saleswoman’s helping her try it on. “Oh.”

  “That’s right, ‘Oh.’ Now finish up your face so we can get you into this thing and out there onstage. Lots of people are depending on you.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me.” Gloria slid out of her slip and stood up. “And like I said: I didn’t buy that dress. I borrowed it.”

  “Uh-huh. And whoever loaned it to you just happens to be your size. And leaves the price tags on her clothes.” Vera pinched the little white tag between her fingers.

  “Um …” Gloria didn’t know what to say.

  Vera waved her off. “You think I care about that? All I care about is my brother keeping his job. Now let’s get you dressed.”

  “My eyes are closed, promise,” Jerome said after his sister had vanished back into the club. He blindly took a step farther into the room. “Here. This will help loosen you up.” He held out the glass of champagne with one hand, the other still covering his eyes.

  She took the glass and said, “You can look.”

  He took his hand away and slowly looked her up and down, then whistled. “I hope you can sing in a dress that tight.” Gloria felt every inch of the silk-and-sequin dress covering her body—and she felt every inch of her body that wasn’t covered.

  “It’s not like I’m wearing a corset,” she said, though the dress felt like one.

  “You most definitely are not wearing a corset,” he said, letting out a low laugh.

  “Do you really want to make me more nervous than I already am?”

  “I’m kidding. And nerves are a good thing.”

  “They are?”

  “Sure. It’s high-voltage energy that you can harness and direct into your performance.” Jerome moved one hand to her shoulder. “Don’t worry. Just sing. You’re gonna knock ’em dead tonight.”

  “Why does everyone say that?”

  His hand lingered. “Say what?”

  “Never mind.” Gloria hoped he wouldn’t notice her rapid-fire breathing, growing quicker with the pressure of his touch. Why did she always feel so out of control around him? She hated herself for it. No, she hated herself for loving every second of it. She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked good. No, she looked great.

  “Listen, once you’re up there on that stage, you just have to trust your voice,” he said, moving a strand of hair away from her eyes. “And you have to trust me.”

  She knew it was wrong, so wrong, but in that moment, she prayed he would kiss her—wasn’t that some kind of backstage good-luck ritual, like saying merde? His lips would be the only reassurance she needed.

  She held her breath and closed her eyes.

  “Make a wish,” Jerome said.

  She felt a finger lightly swipe her cheek. “What?”

  “You had an eyelash.” She opened her eyes, dazed, to see a strawberry-blond sliver poised on the tip of his finger, like a crescent moon against a dark sky. “So you have to make a wish.”

  You, she thought. You.

  She had an eerie feeling that once she set foot on that stage, there would be no turning back to the way things were before. “I don’t believe in wishes. Or maybe I just have too many.”

  “You’re lying, kid,” he said. “You already made it: I could see it in your eyes.”

  Before she could answer, the door was flung open and someone shouted, “We’re on!”

  “Go on, then,” Jerome said, raising his finger again. “We have to get onstage. Make your wish.”

  So she did. Gloria exhaled a stream of air, sending the eyelash into space.

  CLARA

  The notes.

  They bothered Clara so much that she could hardly sleep. Most nights, she would violently awaken at four a.m., her body drenched in a clammy sweat, and be unable to fall back to sleep.

  Fear would sneak up on her at unexpected moments during her too-empty days, when she was walking through the Art Institute or along the Chicago River. A ripple of goose-flesh would shiver across her skin, and she would be certain her note-sender was nearby—around the corner or behind her, watching and waiting.

  She had her suspicions about who might be sending the notes. While she couldn’t be sure, somewhere deep inside her heart, she knew. Why was he doing this to her? What exactly was he trying to prove?

  Something needed to change, but the only thing in her control was her appearance. So Clara determined to shelve her goody-goody façade. Just for a short while—specifically, for Gloria’s limited engagement at the Green Mill.

  Gloria would have pe
rformed her first show without Clara in the audience had it not been for a complete coincidence: The telephone had rung.

  Clara had been alone in the house, and fearing it was her note-sender finding another way to torment her, she’d answered.

  The person on the other end was no one Clara knew, but a man named Evan calling with a message for Gloria.

  As soon as Gloria got home from school, Clara cornered her.

  “Someone called for you this afternoon,” she said, standing outside her cousin’s bedroom door. Gloria was still in her school uniform. She kicked off her stiff brown shoes.

  “Oh?” asked Gloria, dropping her books onto her bed and herself right after them.

  Clara strolled inside and sat beside her.

  “What are you doing?” Gloria asked. “I’m busy.”

  “You don’t look it,” Clara said, pushing the books aside and lying beside her. “Besides, shouldn’t you be getting ready for rehearsal?”

  Clara had read the description in books, but had never seen it until now: The color drained from her cousin’s face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gloria said.

  “I think you do. Someone named Evan called, telling you to swing by the Green Mill for some new sheet music. And to tell you that rehearsal was bumped forward an hour.”

  Gloria sat up. “Oh, damn! What time is it? I’ve got to get ready!” She rushed over to her bedroom door and kicked it shut. “What do you want from me?”

  “The truth, for starters,” Clara said. “After that, we’ll see.”

  Gloria nervously ran her fingers through her hair. “Why would I tell you anything? You’re practically best friends with my mother.”

  “Not fair,” Clara said. “And not true. If I were going to rat you out, I could have told Aunt Bea already.”

  For a moment, Clara thought Gloria was going to sock her. Gloria balled her fists and let loose an angry little scream. “Why must you snoop into my business? What did I ever do to you?”

  Clara raised her hands in surrender. “I’m not your enemy, Gloria. I’m just doing time here. You need to trust me.”

  “Fine, but you have to promise not to tell anyone. Really promise—my life is on the line.”

  “Cross my heart and all that jazz,” Clara said.

  Gloria sucked in a big lungful of air and screwed her eyes shut. “Okay, here goes: I’m the new lead singer at the Green Mill.”

  Clara whistled. Her bland-as-bread cousin was headlining at the hottest speakeasy in Chicago? Clara had to give Gloria some credit. The girl was wilder than she’d initially thought. “Brava,” she said, clapping softly. “That’s so much better than anything I could have imagined.”

  Gloria nodded, her eyes aglow. “It really is, isn’t it?”

  “So that’s where you were sneaking off to? Rehearsal?”

  “Yes!” Gloria squeaked. She looked happier than Clara had ever seen her.

  “Look at you,” Clara said. “I’m impressed.”

  “No one else knows,” Gloria gushed. “Except for Raine, of course. Oh, and Marcus.”

  Marcus.

  “You can come if you want,” Gloria offered. “To my first show. I mean, safer to have you there, where I can see you, than here with Mother, where you might blab.”

  Clara was surprised to be invited. Flattered, even. And only the slightest bit suspicious. “Sure,” she replied. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”

  But that was a problem. Clara wanted to attend her cousin’s debut as herself—her real self. Everyone in Chicago thought she was Country Clara, so she couldn’t exactly show up at the Green Mill all vamped up without causing a stir. But she didn’t need to go as some dowdy hick, either—where was the fun in that? She needed someone she could blame for Clara’s getting all dolled up.

  She needed Lorraine Dyer.

  So she made a plan.

  Flatter Lorraine.

  Convince her that it would be so unfortunate to show up for Gloria’s debut with Country Clara in tow.

  Ask if Lorraine could find it in her heart to share her style and expertise to help Clara look a little bit more modern.

  Let Lorraine take credit for transforming Clara into a flapper.

  The night of the debut, Clara went to Lorraine’s house.

  Lorraine’s mother opened the door. “Oh, hello, Clara,” she said. She was like a tidier, older, more serious version of her daughter. She wore a darkly elegant dress and had her hair pinned up in a sleek French twist.

  Lorraine was standing behind her, blank-faced as a little girl.

  “I’m off to the opera, Lorraine, dear. Please don’t give Marguerite any trouble.” Mrs. Dyer blinked at Clara. “A pleasure to meet you, and my apologies that I have to run. I hope we see more of you soon.” She swept out the door and into a waiting car, which motored away.

  “My parents attend a lot of events,” Lorraine explained in passing.

  They got ready in Lorraine’s room, Eddie Cantor playing on the gramophone, two tumblers of gin poised on the dresser next to an almost embarrassingly huge spread of makeup. Lorraine rested her elbows on her vanity and held down the bottom rim of her eye so that she could blacken the thin pink line with kohl.

  Clara watched from the edge of the bed. Lorraine really was a striking girl, but her strong features were the complete opposite of the dainty, fair femininity that was so in fashion these days. Lorraine’s glossy black bob was blunt-cut and her bangs nearly reached her wide-set eyes, which were a dull hazel. She was tall and angular, with a coltish way of holding herself—as if she had yet to grow into her long torso and longer limbs.

  Clara got up and went to stand behind her. “I wish I had your body. Your hips are practically half my size.”

  Lorraine’s grin was huge and instantaneous. “Really?” she asked, squeezing her waist. “I think my hips look like teacup handles.”

  “No, I’m so jealous!” Clara exclaimed. “And your chest—you’re so lucky you don’t have to bother with some horrible compression device.”

  Lorraine turned sideways in the mirror, admiring her mosquito-bite boobs. “It’s just the dress,” she said, straightening her red Callot Soeurs frock. It was sleeveless, long—almost to her ankles—but incredibly sexy, with satin trim and beading around the waistline. “The French always know how to dress a woman’s body.”

  Clara made a face at her own dress, which was something of her aunt’s. She’d worn it purposefully, hoping Lorraine would be embarrassed by the prospect of being seen with Clara in it. “I feel like I’m going camping in mine.” She held out the extra material until it looked like a tent.

  “Do you want to borrow something?”

  Clara did her best wide-eyed grateful look. “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “I have a row of dresses just sitting in my closet, most still with the tags on—it’s really not a big deal. Besides”—Lorraine sighed impatiently, her eyes traveling to Clara’s passé frock—“last season is one thing, but last century is something else. Sure, this is Gloria’s night, but that doesn’t mean we can’t look très chic, oui?”

  “Oh, that would really be swell!” Clara exclaimed. This was too easy. “But do you really think I can pull it off?” she asked. “I mean, obviously I’m not half the smarty that you are.”

  Lorraine paused before swiping at her lips with a vampire-red lipstick. “Don’t worry.” She smiled brightly, absorbing Clara’s admiration like a human sponge. “I can’t promise miracles, but I can promise mascara.”

  “What happened to you?” Marcus asked Clara as the girls sauntered into the Green Mill. He looked stunned.

  He wasn’t the only one. They both got long, lingering looks. Lorraine wore a red boa draped over her sparkling dress, the expensive fabric shimmering in the light. Her long silk gloves were as black as the kohl around her eyes. Even Clara had to admit the girl looked stunning.

  And Clara was stunning, too. Her backless dress was a shade lighter than her honey-blond locks.
She looked like a film star.

  “I don’t think Marcus likes my new look,” Clara said demurely. He didn’t look half bad himself, in black trousers and a short gray jacket over a navy-blue embroidered vest. A sharp-looking bow tie completed the ensemble.

  “No, I mean, it’s—You’re—You look … different?” he said, rubbing his knuckles under his chin in contemplation.

  “I take complete blame,” Lorraine cooed, linking arms with Clara. “Doesn’t she look like the real McCoy?”

  “Clearly, I learned from the reigning queen,” Clara said, tossing her head back regally. Lorraine did look good—if a bit overdone—but Clara could see that Marcus was still focused on her.

  Not that she was complaining. Every girl in the club was vying for his attention. Amid a sea of dark-haired, well-manicured businessmen and mobsters, Marcus was the thrilling opposite—young and blond and full of life.

  Of course, Marcus wasn’t only a pretty face. (Clara almost wished he were—it would make life a lot simpler.) He had grown on her. Yes, she had wanted to eschew another romantic entanglement, but perhaps some things were simply unavoidable.

  Marcus glowed at her. Suddenly, in a flash of memory, she saw him—the Cad, not Marcus—before her, smiling that dazzling smile, seducing her as if it were a game. Clara blinked, and the club came back into focus.

  Allowing herself to get comfortable with Marcus was not going to be easy.

  Gloria was supposed to come on soon, so they all moved to a reserved booth near the corner of the stage. Gloria’s doing, otherwise they would have been standing in the back. The booths near them were filled with gangsters in dark suits and flappers in dresses so brilliant they were nearly blinding.

  “You think I should go back and check on our girl?” Lorraine said, taking a sip of a toxic-looking drink—a yellowish mixture with something creamy on top. “It’s almost eleven-thirty.”

  “These types of things always start late,” Clara said casually. And then caught herself. “I mean, that’s what I’ve always read in the rags. The start time is just a ploy to get people into the room.”