Vixen

by Jillian Larkin

  “It’s not just a dress, it’s a Paul Poiret,” Gloria said. She dug through her drawers, throwing clothes like salt over her shoulder. “And I wouldn’t make my New York entrance wearing anything else.”

  Gloria was going to New York? Clara was about to question her, but then remembered how she’d felt when she’d decided to run away from home two years before. “When are you leaving?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Have you thought this through?”

  Gloria didn’t answer. She just kept combing through drawers and casting things into the open maw of the suitcase. “I’ve thought plenty. Staying here isn’t an option. I hope leaving is not a mistake, but even if it is, it is mine to make. Mine and Jerome’s.”

  Clara couldn’t stop herself. “Oh my God, are you pregnant? You can tell me if—”

  “What? No!” Gloria paused, horrified. “I haven’t even—you know—yet. With anyone.”

  Clara perched on the edge of Gloria’s bed. Clara thought of her old feelings for Harris, then her new ones for Marcus. It was like comparing a watercolor by a five-year-old to Monet’s water lilies.

  “A word of advice,” Clara said. “Once you give it up, you can’t get it back. And everything gets even more complicated than it already is.”

  “Listen,” Gloria said. “I really appreciate your trying to act the older sister and everything”—she scooped a pile of brassieres off the floor—“and I’m sorry if everything didn’t work out the way you planned. But that doesn’t mean it won’t for me. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, Clara. I certainly don’t mean for it to.”

  Gloria pressed down the top of her suitcase, trying to close it, only there were too many clothes. “I love Jerome. If our love won’t be allowed to exist here, then we have to find a place where it will. Where we can start fresh.”

  “If that’s how it is,” Clara said, studying her cousin’s face and walking over to the bed, “you’re going to need a little help.”

  Clara took some of the items off the top of the stack in the suitcase—a red cashmere sweater, a knee-length white cotton skirt—and tossed them onto the floor. “You need to pack lightly. All these clothes are just going to weigh you down. Just buy whatever else you need once you get to New York,” she added, scrutinizing the newly thinned-out contents. “Please tell me you packed money.”

  Gloria nodded.

  “Are you sure you have enough?”

  “I hope so.”

  Clara remembered how hard it had been when she’d first arrived in New York, with only a hundred bucks to her name. But then, she had survived, hadn’t she? Pounding the pavement along with everyone else and scrambling to pay her rent, sure—but the scramble was part of New York’s hardscrabble charm.

  “Listen, you’re going to take over Manhattan.” Even though Gloria was leaving, Clara had never felt closer to her cousin. “And who knows, maybe I’ll see you there one day soon.”

  Gloria squeezed Clara affectionately. “There’s something I want to give you.” Gloria began to stomp around the room, kicking at the piles of clothing on the floor, until she found what she was looking for.

  The gold butterfly flask.

  “Didn’t I tell you that’s yours to keep?” Clara asked.

  “I know, but I figured you might want it. To remember …” Gloria trailed off, a sadness darkening her face.

  “Everything I want to remember, I already have,” Clara said. “Besides, it’s a long train ride.” Clara stuffed the flask into Gloria’s clutch.

  Gloria buried her head in Clara’s shoulder. “What would I have done without you?”

  Clara tugged at a strand of Clara’s hair. “Something tells me you would’ve gotten along just fine. Now, you’d better get a move on! Don’t waste your tears on me.” She dragged Gloria’s suitcase, significantly lighter, off the bed and handed it to her. “And don’t worry about your mother—I’ve got you covered. For a few hours, at least. Remember to use the servants’ entrance.”

  Gloria planted a huge kiss on Clara’s cheek. “I’ll send you a telegram once I’m there, all right?”

  Clara walked Gloria to the servants’ door, where they briefly hugged one last time.

  Then Gloria was off, suitcase in hand, rushing toward whatever journey awaited her. “Good luck,” Clara whispered into the darkness.

  Clara went back to her room. She had stuffed Gloria’s bed with pillows so it looked as if she were sleeping there, in case her aunt woke up or Claudine decided to check on Gloria in the middle of the night. Aunt Bea would realize Gloria was gone in the morning, of course, but by then Gloria would be most of the way to New York.

  Clara felt happy for Gloria, who was at last becoming someone worth knowing, and sad for herself, who’d become someone nobody wants to admit to knowing.

  She thought about that morning’s papers, about the photos and the headlines (she couldn’t bear to read more than that): Lorraine pointing at Clara; Gloria, shocked, in the background. BELLE OF THE BALL HAS SECRET PAST! and SHOCKING SECRETS UPSTAGE THE ENGAGED! and “SHE HAD HIS BABY!” CRIES DRUNK. There had been other pictures inside, Claudine had told her, but those were mostly of Lorraine struggling to get up off the floor.

  Clara stripped off her clothes and cranked open the hot tap on the bath. Then she upended the French lavender bath salts her aunt liked to buy but asked the girls to “save for a special occasion.” This was a special occasion if she’d ever seen one. The spigot gurgled and ever so slowly began to fill the tub.

  Wrapped in a towel, Clara collapsed onto her bed, throwing a hand over her eyes. That was when she felt the cool metal scrape of the bracelet on her eyelids.

  She had completely forgotten! She waved her wrist in the air above her head, following the diamonds back and forth. She would never get the bracelet back to Marcus in time now. She supposed she could ship it to him from home.

  Home. Home wasn’t Pennsylvania. It no longer was Chicago. Really, if Clara was honest with herself, it was New York City.

  Where Gloria was bound.

  There was a soft knock on her door.

  Gloria must have forgotten something. “Hold on!” Clara called out, relieved to have a second chance to remove this damn bracelet. She turned off the tap, retied the towel around herself, and went to the door. “Thank God you came back,” she said, “because I forgot to ask you to—”

  “Forgot to ask me what?”

  “Marcus!” Clara stumbled back in shock, clutching the top of her towel to prevent it from falling. “What are you doing here?”

  He stepped into the room. His blond hair was swept back, and he was wearing a light blue cardigan and light brown trousers. He looked as if he hadn’t slept since the engagement party last night. There were purple circles under his eyes, and his cheeks were sprinkled with light stubble.

  “First, tell me what you wanted to ask me.” His voice gave her goose bumps.

  She wanted to ask him a million things: Do you hate me? Can you ever trust me again? Have I ruined my chances by lying to you? Can you ever look at me without thinking of Harris? Without thinking of his baby? Do you love me? Do you love me?

  But instead, she extended her arm like a frustrated child. “My bracelet! I can’t undo it.”

  He gently took her wrist in his hands. “Did you ever consider that it may not want to be undone?” He opened the clasp and then snapped it shut again, still on her arm.

  “Hey!”

  “Just be quiet for once.”

  Marcus led her to the bed and sat her down, then sat beside her. Clara held her breath as he spread her palms open on his lap. “I knew it,” he said, tracing her life line with his fingertips.

  “You knew what?”

  “Oh, nothing,” he said. “I just learned for sure what your answer will be to my question, that’s all.” He tapped her hand. “It’s so obvious, really, that I don’t even need to bother to ask.”

  “Ask what?” Clara was confused. Happy and confused and scared. She stare
d down at her hands. They just looked like hands. A little wet, maybe, from messing about with the bathwater. “Marcus, just take your bracelet and leave me be. Please.”

  “Is that really what you want?”

  “Does it even matter what I want? You already know everything there is to know. There’s nothing left. I have nothing left,” she said, her eyes fixed on the bracelet.

  “Look at me, Clara,” he said.

  “I can’t.” She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  He gently caught her chin with his finger, raising it so that she was staring straight into his eyes. “I want you to look at me.” There was a dreamy cast to his eyes, like the sky seen through wispy clouds. “Now, was that so hard?”

  “I didn’t think you’d want to see me again, not after the other night—”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “But why? To see me in my shame?” She swallowed a sob. “You finally got what you wanted: To see Country Clara made the victim of a scandal. To send her running out of Chicago. That was the plan, wasn’t it? When I first arrived?”

  Marcus looked ashamed. “It was. Originally. But that was before I knew you. I don’t want that anymore.”

  “So what do you want now, Marcus?”

  He smiled in a maddening way and took her wrist again in his hand. “I want you. Clara, will you”—he paused, his finger poised on the clasp of the bracelet. “Will you move to New York with me next summer? After I graduate.”

  “What?” Clara sprang up from the bed. She wished more than anything that she weren’t dressed in a towel. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “Clara,” Marcus said, exasperated, “if I don’t act now I may never see you again.”

  “Did you not hear what Lorraine said last night? Don’t you know what this means for my reputation in Chicago? New York? And, frankly, everywhere?”

  “I don’t care what you did or didn’t do before me. I just care about you, now. I love you. I’m in love with you, Clara,” Marcus said, pulling her back down to the bed so that she was practically sitting on his lap. “I had some time to think about everything. And the thing is, when I imagined what my life would be like without you, well … I didn’t see anything at all.”

  There was so much to say that Clara felt nearly paralyzed. She ran into the bathroom and wrapped herself in a flannel robe.

  “Do you remember meeting me, for the first time, in this room?” Marcus asked when she came back. “How could I forget?”

  “I remember thinking there was something different about you—something just beneath the surface, a veil of mystery waiting to be lifted. It made me want to kiss you, right then and there.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he said, stroking her hand. “I am a gentleman, after all.”

  She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to kiss him. “What if you don’t like me … the real me?” she asked nervously. “What if, when I’m myself, you no longer want me?”

  “I’ll always want you, Clara.”

  “But how do you know?” she asked. “How do you know for sure?”

  “How about this?” Marcus asked, sitting upright. He straightened his cardigan and stuck out his hand. “We’ll start from scratch. Hello. I’m Marcus Eastman. Who are you?”

  Clara laughed. “Oh, Marcus. Come on. Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m serious!” he said. “Introduce yourself. Your real self.”

  Clara was about to laugh again, but then she realized that this was exactly what she wanted: a fresh start.

  “My name is Clara Knowles,” she said, placing her hand in Marcus’s.

  He shook it vigorously. “Lovely to meet you, Miss Knowles.”

  “Likewise, Mr. Eastman.”

  They both started laughing and fell backward on Clara’s bed.

  “There’s only one problem,” Clara said in all seriousness, still holding on to Marcus’s hand.

  “What’s that?”

  Clara ran her fingers through his thick blond hair and across his cheek. This was it—the moment when she would take the biggest risk in her entire life. Which was saying a lot. She grinned. “How am I possibly going to wait till next summer?”

  He just laughed. “It won’t be too long.” He kissed her.

  “The next time you kiss me,” Clara said, “the next time we kiss—it will be in Grand Central Station. I’ll have come in on the overnight train.”

  “Your hair will be pushed up into a wide-brimmed hat. I won’t recognize you at first.”

  “But then I’ll pull off the hat, and I’ll shake out my hair—”

  “Like a starlet in some terrible movie.” He made a face.

  “In a fabulous movie, thank you very much. That’s when you’ll see me on the platform. At first, you’ll be struck speechless. I’ll break into a run and throw myself into your arms, and you’ll swing me around, and I’ll kick up my legs and everyone else will turn and stare, jealous of us and of our love.”

  “My God,” Marcus whispered. “Clara Knowles, I do believe you’re a romantic.”

  And suddenly she knew it was true. She was a romantic. When had that happened?

  “Do you still want me to undo your bracelet?” Marcus asked.

  “If it’s all right with you, Mr. Eastman,” Clara said, “I think I’ll keep it on for good.”

  LORRAINE

  Sitting at home and moping was not an option. Going out to the newest speakeasy, called Cloak & Dagger, was.

  Even if Lorraine had to go by herself.

  She figured it was preparation for Barnard—surely all the girls there were so confident that they could go stag all over the city and no one would even bat an eye.

  She had her driver drop her off at a run-down Italian restaurant off State Street. Her friend Violet had written out the instructions on the back of a missal she had in her purse, and Lorraine followed them exactly: Walk to the back of the restaurant, bypassing all the couples; push through the double doors as if you belong, then charge through the tomato-splattered kitchen, ignoring the cooks; turn left at the far wall, stride past the reeking garbage bins, and go straight up to the large, scary-looking man in front of the metal door.

  “I’m here to see a man about a dog.” Lorraine tried to growl, only the noise came out more like a whimper. The man—who was dressed all in black—gave her a quick once-over, then let her in without a word.

  Cloak & Dagger was cozier than she had expected: a small, dark room, lit by what looked like a thousand little votive candles in tiny glass spheres. A winding iron staircase led up to a second-floor wraparound balcony. Tucked into the far corner of the room was the bar, but it was more like a very tall desk. An even taller man—the bartender—slouched against the desk, smoking a cigarette. A scratchy jazz record played in the background, and a few couples on the minuscule dance floor were moving as slowly as the winding curlicues of smoke rising from their cigarettes.

  Lorraine liked this mellow, sultry atmosphere. No one seemed to care much about anyone else. With one or two martinis in her, she could forget why she was here alone in the first place: because her life, as she knew it, was ruined.

  Her parents had come home after two weeks away and had spoken to her just long enough to tell her they’d read about her behavior in the gossip columns, were grounding her until she graduated, and furthermore, weren’t speaking to her. Nor were any of her friends.

  She casually strolled toward the bar. Unlike the Green Mill, this place was thinly populated. But she didn’t miss the drama of a crowd. No more trying to please others. No more Gloria. No more Bastian. No more … anyone.

  She needed to drown her sorrows in something pretty and brightly colored and alcoholic. Maybe even something pink. She took off her mink capelet and draped it over a tattered stool.

  “You’re breaking my rules,” she heard the bartender say over the music. Lil Hardin’s voice was singing something sultry.

  The bartender was lean and muscular, in a t
ight sweater vest and stovepipe-narrow trousers. He looked dangerous and appealing. Lorraine was sick of pretty boys like Marcus and privileged, snot-nosed brats like Bastian. She needed someone new and different who would think she was new and different. Someone lean and muscular and wearing stovepipe-narrow trousers.

  “I thought places like this didn’t have rules,” Lorraine said. The bartender’s eyes were depthless and dark. “Isn’t that why I’m here?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you were here to flirt with me.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “Not at all,” he said, leaning slightly over the bar, “unless we’re talking about your dress.”

  “I don’t remember giving you permission to look at my dress,” Lorraine said with a coy smile. She was wearing a brand-new Jeanne Lanvin—shipped from her mother’s personal shopper at Bergdorf Goodman. It was mostly sheer, nude netting, with burned-out velvet flowers rising up the center. “You never told me what rule I’m breaking.”

  He lined up four shot glasses on the bar. “Don’t worry,” he said eventually, pouring a clear liquid into the glasses. “I’m only teasing.”

  He pushed two across the bar toward her. “There are four. Two for each of us.”

  Lorraine squinted at him, uncertain.

  He laughed. “I’m sorry—would you rather I pour you a big glass of milk?”

  His mockery was childish—she knew it was childish—and yet it got under her skin. She didn’t want him to think she was a little girl. Yes, she was a teenager, but—“Cheers to …?” she asked, raising a shot glass.

  “To finding each other!” he said, clinking his glass against hers. He downed both shots in a second.

  Lorraine followed suit. “A chaser would have been nice,” she said, wincing from the burn.

  “I have the perfect thing in mind.” He winked, then called to a man smoking alone in the corner. “Frank, take over for a sec? We’re out of lemons.” He stepped out from behind the bar and took Lorraine’s hand. “Come on,” he said.