“Of course not. But there’s more to it, and I—”
“Why, there’s my little troublemaker,” a woman cooed, appearing out of nowhere and putting her hands all over Marcus, fussing with his jacket and his tie.
For a middle-aged woman, she was attractive. Her platinum-blond hair was piled up in a pretty bouffant, and she looked elegant in a floor-length black lace gown. She seemed weirdly familiar. With a shock, Clara realized this was Marcus’s mother. She had his forceful self-confidence and spoke in a distinctive breathless rush, emphasizing words with a jab of her cigarette holder.
“I’ve been looking all over for you! I wanted to introduce you to Mr. Kent, remember? On the board of trustees? He practically owns half the real estate in New York, so he could be a very useful connection for you next year.” She finally noticed Clara. “And who is this darling little thing? Don’t tell me you are Beatrice’s niece? The one Marcus has been going on and on about?”
“Guilty as charged,” Clara said. The longer she was in Chicago, the more people wanted to meet her. It was nice to feel wanted. “And excuse me for saying so, but it’s obvious whom Marcus gets his good looks from.”
“And she’s a doll?” Mrs. Eastman said to Marcus. “Well, excuse me for saying so, but ever since this one over here was a little boy, I always thought he was in love with your cousin Gloria—they were so attached at the hip. But then when she got engaged—”
“Mother!” Marcus protested. “Really, please stop—”
“And you just dropped into my boy’s life like an angel falling from the sky,” she continued. “I just had this feeling about you two. This cosmic feeling.”
“Oh, Mother,” Marcus muttered.
“Maternal instincts are the best instincts,” Clara said, smiling. This woman was wild, and charming. Clara liked her enormously.
“They may not be the best, but they are always right,” Mrs. Eastman said, straightening Marcus’s bow tie while he fidgeted. “Now, don’t mind me, I’ll leave you two alone to enjoy my exhibition. Well, not my exhibition, I’m only on the board. Oh, look, there’s Betsy von Tipper—I hear she’s having an affair with her dentist. Betsy!”
Marcus and Clara watched her dash off to cheek-kiss a woman in a purple gown that looked like a Persian rug.
“Wow,” Clara said, “your mother is—”
“A face stretcher?” Marcus offered.
“Marcus, that is not a nice thing to say about your own mother! I was going to say the cat’s pajamas.” Lillian Eastman might have been a little overwrought, but she was certainly more interesting than most other women her age. “So what did you tell her about me?” Clara asked. “I hope only good things.”
“Of course.” Marcus regarded her sternly. “Unless everything I told her was a damn lie.”
His tone shocked her.
“I mean, I know it’s none of my business, seeing that we’re …” He trailed off.
“We’re what?” We’re an item? We’re crazy about each other? We’re meant to be? That was what she wanted to say, but instead she said, “Tell me.”
“We’re nothing, Clara. Maybe that’s the problem.” He tugged at his bow tie as if it were strangling him. “If you want to kiss some other man, I have no right to say you can’t. But a man like Harris Brown—” He yanked hard and his tie came completely undone. “How do you even know a man like that?”
Hearing his name come out of Marcus’s mouth made her cringe. She wanted to tell him that she was over Harris, that she was proud of her new self for not going off with him to “catch up.” She wanted to tell Marcus that she had changed. That she wasn’t the same girl she had once been in New York. That she liked the new woman she was becoming.
But Marcus didn’t know any of that, and as she looked into his wounded blue eyes, she wanted it to stay that way. “Why don’t we go visit the Cassatts—”
“I have a better idea.” He led her through the maze of diamond-encrusted women and tuxedo-clad waiters, right past the room with the Cassatts and into a closed-off part of the museum. Finally, they hopped over a barricade blocking off a dark corridor of Renaissance art. The party was a mere buzz in the distance now, and they stood in the eerie darkness, out of breath, alone.
“Is this your subtle way of telling me you prefer images of the Virgin Mary to mothers bathing their children?” she asked, trying to make a joke. But he didn’t laugh, just paced back and forth in front of an enormous dark portrait of the Madonna. “You’re acting a little bit like a crazy person.”
“Because you’ve been making me crazy!” he said, exasperated. “Ever since I saw you kiss that character at the Green Mill!”
Clara’s dress suddenly started to feel too tight. She couldn’t breathe.
“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this—maybe I should be suave and pretend I don’t give a damn—but I do,” he said.
“No, I want you to be honest with me,” Clara began, only to realize how dishonest she was being.
“Why won’t you open up to me? Can’t you see I’m trying, here?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “But you’re just a closed book, aren’t you? You won’t let anybody in.”
Clara wanted so much to tell Marcus the truth—he deserved the truth, not a twisted sliver of it—but what would he think of her? How would he ever respect her? She looked at him, at the softness and concern that lived within his eyes. He was the first guy in her life who’d ever really cared for her—not some girl who was part of a social equation, who fit a need and a style of the moment, but her, Clara, with all her stupid jokes and her fears and her mistakes.
If she told him about her sordid past, she would risk losing him. And she couldn’t risk losing anything again. “I want to tell you,” she said, on the verge of tears, “but you’ll hate me if I do.”
“I could never hate you, Clara,” he said. His hands traveled to the back of her neck, and he drew her to him, to his soft lips. “I want you to let me in, Clara.”
And for the first time in her life, Clara had a true kiss—one that wasn’t about someone taking advantage of her, wasn’t about her lying with her lips. It was about wanting to kiss no one else in the world. It was a kiss that shook her to her foundation and woke her up again, shook her alive.
Sitting on the steps outside the museum, sharing a pilfered bottle of sparkling cider, Clara told Marcus how she’d run away from Pennsylvania to New York, and the wild flapper life she’d lived there—the jazz, the booze, the boys. How she was trying to reinvent herself and stay out of reform school in the process. And she told him all about Harris Brown—well, mostly all. There were some things—one horrific thing—that Clara couldn’t bring herself to mention.
“So you didn’t know he was engaged to the other woman?” Marcus asked, passing her the bottle.
“No, I knew,” she said quietly, ashamed. “The two of them were all over the papers; their engagement was a big deal. It was impossible not to know unless you were living under a rock.”
“I don’t understand,” he said. He rubbed his jaw. “Why would you want to put yourself in that position?”
“I feel strange talking to you about another man,” she admitted, though she was relieved to have it all off her chest. She looked down at her black patent-leather pumps, so tiny next to his large brown suede loafers. She was holding back, but the rest of the story she would never tell him—never in her life.
“But what’s he doing here? Men like him don’t come chasing a girl halfway across the country if they’re through.”
Clara hugged herself. “His fiancée broke off their engagement when she found out about me. He’s here because he couldn’t find anyone else who would have him.”
Marcus looked up into the dark night. A full moon hung in the sky, hoarding all the light. As he gazed at it, Marcus’s face looked angelic, almost too pure for the story she was telling.
“Listen, if you want nothing to do with me after this, I understand. But please, please, be discreet. The Carm
odys have enough trouble. The last thing they need is another scandal.” Clara felt drained and exhausted, but at least she had come clean. That was more than she had done in a long time.
Marcus stood up to leave. Of course he was leaving. Despite his faults, Marcus was a good, respectable guy. He wanted a sweet, innocent girl. Not a reformed flapper whose past hounded her at every step.
Clara took one last look at Marcus. Oh, how she wanted to kiss him! But instead, she would have to let him go. “You can go if you must. That’s all I wanted to say.”
She closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them, Marcus would already be gone. She couldn’t bear seeing the rejection in his face. She waited a few seconds and then blinked. He was still there.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said softly. “I just wanted to give you my coat.”
Marcus knelt down and wrapped her in his coat, and then in his arms. It felt so incredible to be held by him.
Clara rested her head against his broad shoulder. She wasn’t used to kindness. Nearly all of her secrets had been revealed, and Marcus was still there, holding her, with no intention of leaving.
“I just have one more question, and I want you to be honest with me.” He paused. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. “Do you still love him? Now that the engagement is broken off, you could be together.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t love him. I don’t think I ever really did. I didn’t know what love was, back then. I think I wanted to feel things just for the sake of feeling them. But now I have a much better idea.”
“Oh?” he said, trailing his fingertips up her arm. “What kind of idea?”
“Something like this,” she said, and kissed him again until the moon had sunk past the horizon and the night sky over Chicago was spangled with stars.
LORRAINE
“What are you drinking?” Bastian asked her. “Or rather, how sloppy do you want to get?”
“I didn’t come over here to socialize with you,” Lorraine said, holding down the hem of her dress as she crossed her legs. “Or get ‘sloppy,’ whatever that means.”
“No need to play coy with me, Raine.” He lined two tumblers up on the bar. “You lost that privilege the last time you were here.”
“I’d prefer to forget. In fact, consider it erased from the record.” She was at Bastian’s apartment with a mission, and under no circumstances would she deviate from it. Or risk a repeat of last time.
“I much prefer to remember it.” He tapped his head. “Chiseled in stone.”
Lorraine studied Bastian’s face—the dark eyebrows, the square jaw, the oh-so-kissable lips. Sure, he was gorgeous. But he was a liar and a creep. He was also her only route to vindication. For better or for worse, she needed him.
She had come here to uncover exactly how Bastian had known that Gloria was performing at the Green Mill. She hadn’t told him, and yet she was the one getting all the blame. Her friendship with Gloria was in the garbage; Marcus wouldn’t look at her, let alone talk to her.
In the past, it had felt good to be bad—especially since Raine was always in the shadow of prissy, perfect Gloria. But who had she become? Did she even like that Lorraine anymore?
Maybe Marcus was right and Lorraine Dyer was worthy only of scorn. She had crossed a line somewhere, and now something had to change. Whoever that despicable girl was who had sat on this couch two weeks ago, kissing her best friend’s fiancé, it was no longer Lorraine. She was going to change. Starting now.
Bastian walked over to the couch with the two glasses of brandy and stood over her. He looked handsome and smug. She hated him more than she’d realized. “What brings you to my neck of the woods? Didn’t get enough of me last time?” He handed her a glass, which she immediately placed on the coffee table.
He sat down next to her, stretching out his arms and legs so that he crowded her against the armrest. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked, lighting a cigar. “Oh, I forgot—you’re not attracted to men who treat you well.”
Lorraine slid to the corner. He seemed to be plastered already. “Why is Gloria under the impression that you don’t drink?”
“Oh, it’s more than just that. Gloria also thinks”—he counted on the fingers of his raised hand—“that I do not smoke, or go to speakeasies, or stay out late, or … indulge in other extracurricular activities,” he said, sliding closer to Lorraine. “Activities I know you’re always game for.”
Lorraine was speechless. Bastian was even more of an oilcan than she’d thought. Contempt from Gloria and Marcus she could accept, but from Bastian—it was too much. “You—I—You’re despicable.”
He just laughed. “Me? I’m sorry, but am I misreading things? Here you are again, late at night, full of gin, on my sofa. What is a man to think?”
Too infuriated to speak, Lorraine began to stand up. But Bastian’s hand shot out and caught her arm and yanked her back down.
“Get your hands off me!” she cried.
“You didn’t seem to mind before.”
Lorraine pulled her arm from his grasp and straightened her dress. She had to stay focused. “I’m not here to play games with you, Bastian,” she said. “I came here only to find out who told you about Gloria, and then I’ll leave you alone.”
Bastian threw back his drink. “Oh, is that all you want?”
“Please,” she said, trying to appeal to whatever goodness was buried deep inside him. “Gloria thinks I ratted her out—”
“Correction: Everyone thinks you ratted her out.”
“I don’t care about everyone! I care about my best friend. Gloria’s friendship is important to me.”
“So important that you’d consider sleeping with her fiancé?” he said, exhaling a trail of smoke rings.
“How could you even—” She could feel her cheeks flushing. Maybe this was a better tactic. You caught more flies with honey. “Bastian, please try to understand the situation I’m in. I’ll do anything—”
He leaned forward. “Anything?”
She made herself smile. “Well, almost anything.”
Bastian leered and stubbed out his cigar. “I’m a businessman, Lorraine,” he said, placing his hand on her knee. “I speak in the language of transactions. Goods and prices and fees for services rendered. Now, understand, I am more than willing to negotiate with you.”
Lorraine caught his hand before it reached her thigh and dug her nails into his flesh. “Tell me who it was,” she said, trying to push him off.
“I only believe in fair trade.” He twisted her hand back, pinning her against the sofa. She thrashed wildly. “You’re a real bearcat,” Bastian said.
“You have no idea,” Lorraine said, kneeing him in the groin. Bastian yelped like a little dog and released her.
Lorraine peeled herself off the sofa. Nothing was worth the price of her dignity.
She downed the brandy. “Thanks for the drink,” she said, slamming the glass back on the table.
“Do you know why your little boy crush Marcus will never want you?” Bastian gasped, still curled in a ball. “Because you’re easy, Lorraine. You’ve got easy written all over your face.”
Coming to Bastian’s had been a complete and utter mistake.
“You don’t deserve a girl like Gloria,” Lorraine said. “And I’ll make sure she finds that out. I’ll tell her everything you’re up to, and let’s see if she still wants to marry you then.”
“What makes you believe she’ll listen to you now?” Bastian asked. “She won’t even speak to you.”
Lorraine didn’t bother to answer. She turned and walked out the door.
Lorraine ran. She slipped off her heels and ran in her stockinged feet all the way up North Lake Shore Drive and didn’t stop until she rounded the corner onto Astor Street and spotted the Carmodys’ looming estate.
But the house was dark. Of course. Tonight was the seniors’ Honor Society induction ceremony, which Gloria was sure to be attending, along with her mother.
Lorraine had already gotten into Barnard; she didn’t need her Honor Society key. It didn’t unlock anything, anyway.
Maybe this was a blessing in disguise.
Lorraine wasn’t an avid reader of crime novels, but she had pieced together this much about the betrayer:
she had to be in Gloria’s inner circle;
she had to know Bastian Grey; and
she had to have a motivation to harm Gloria.
She, she, she … What made her think the traitor was female? A man could easily have wanted to break up Bastian and Gloria’s engagement, if there was a romantic interest at stake. But this had all the markings of girl-jealousy. Lorraine had a gut instinct about it. Some might call it intuition, but Lorraine knew it was just one bad girl recognizing the work of another.
Since Lorraine was here anyway, she might as well take advantage of Gloria’s absence. She put her heels back on and straightened her dress. She needed to find something—a single clue, a smoking gun, a note about Bastian—anything to prove that Lorraine wasn’t the one who’d spilled about the Green Mill.
The Carmodys’ tired old French maid answered when Lorraine knocked on the door.
Claudine was a wispy slip of a thing who had a rodent-like distrust of everyone around her. Lorraine prayed that the scandal between her and Gloria hadn’t filtered down to the hired help just yet, even though they usually seemed to know everything before anyone else. “Oui, Mademoiselle Lorraine?”
“Claudine, est-ce que je visite la chambre à Mademoiselle Gloria? Je, um, forgot mon book there le other nuit and we have un examen tomorrow.”
Claudine regarded her suspiciously but let her in all the same.
The house was unnaturally quiet except for the sharp tock of Lorraine’s heels on the parquet floor. The grand hall was dark with shadow, the lights dimmed, and Lorraine was grateful when she reached the carpeted stairs. She glided up silently.
Just before hurrying into Gloria’s room, she paused. A door on the right, cracked open an inch, had caught her attention. The bedroom of Clara Knowles. Sweet, innocent, goody-two-shoes Clara Knowles. A girl who seemed to be so clueless, so harmless, yet had somehow managed to win over Marcus—and everyone else—as if she had cast a voodoo spell.
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