Ingenue

by Jillian Larkin

  “I’ll join you,” Coco said, scooting out of the booth. “And when we get back, we want to hear more about this absurd deb ball!”

  Clara slouched down in the booth while they were gone. She couldn’t wait to get out of there and go to meet Marcus for dinner.

  All through her time in Chicago, she had missed her wild New York life. But now she couldn’t understand why. If this meeting with Leelee and Coco had shown her anything, it was how grateful she should be that she’d found Marcus. She had received a chance at a real relationship, rather than one based on booze and pointless yarns.

  Marcus loved her. He wanted to be with her—in fact, he wanted to be with her so badly he’d even had his parents get her accepted into college. He wanted her to live near him instead of so far away. If anything bad could be said about Marcus, it was that he loved her too much. But that wasn’t bad. It was good. It was everything she’d ever wanted.

  So why hadn’t she jumped at his offer?

  Clara noticed Leelee and Coco standing next to a man sitting on one of the wooden stools. Had they even gone to the ladies’ room?

  And then she recognized the young man.

  That slicked-back brown hair and oh so au courant designer suit, that insouciant slouch and tipped-back hat—it could be none other than Philip Helmsworth. Back in the old days, he had come out on the town with Clara, her roommates, and Harris Brown. Harris’s friends were no better than he was—the fact that Philip was married hadn’t stopped him from sleeping with Coco on more than one occasion.

  Clara couldn’t believe that her friends were flirting with the pal of the man who had broken her heart. The man Clara had just finished telling horror stories about. She gathered her things, stood up, and headed for the stairs.

  A strong hand caught her arm. “Where are you rushing off to?”

  Clara turned and looked up into the striking face of a man in his early twenties. He had wavy dark brown hair and vibrant green eyes. His nose was perfectly shaped, perfectly straight, his cheeks dusted with stubble, his chin strong and square. He wore a sharply cut gray suit and a red silk tie. He was some kind of handsome—if a girl was looking to find a handsome boy. Which she wasn’t.

  “I don’t see how that is any of your business,” Clara said.

  His grin showed off a set of gleaming, straight teeth. “I knew it was you.”

  “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

  “No, it’s you.” He tapped the brim of her hat. “It was hard to tell with this enormous horrid thing. Yours is the kind of face that should never be hidden under a big hat. If that’s what this is.”

  Clara stared at him, confused. “Have we met?”

  “Unfortunately not,” he replied. He extended his hand. “I’m Parker Richards.”

  “Hello, Parker Richards. Do you want to tell me how you know me?”

  He dragged a stool away from the bar and sat. “You’re Clara Knowles. Biggest cheese of the New York City flappers. Queen Sheba of the Flapper Scene. Sultana of the Sweet and Vicious. Everyone knows who you are.”

  Clara blushed. She thought she had spent long enough away that her reputation would have all but dissolved by now. It was distressing (and she had to admit it: a little flattering) to learn that it hadn’t. Good-looking men like this one still knew who she was.

  “Not anymore, I’m not,” she replied. “That part of my life is over.”

  “Is it?” He pulled out the stool next to him. “How about you park your chassis, chat with me a spell?”

  The old Clara would have hopped right onto the seat, if not into the man’s lap. “No, I really have to be going—”

  “Just for a minute,” Parker said with another self-assured smile. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “I’ll bet you do.” An afternoon in a speakeasy plus a man offering a “proposition” equaled trouble.

  “No, nothing like that,” Parker said. “I’m one of the good guys. Promise. I have a job opportunity that I’d like to run by you.”

  Clara’s ears perked up—he wanted to offer her a job? Doing what? Against her better judgment, she took a seat.

  “I just got a gig editing Manhattanite magazine,” he said.

  “Never heard of it,” Clara said.

  He chuckled. “You will. Our debut issue just came out.”

  “How convenient,” she said. Despite herself, she was impressed. How did someone so young become an editor of a magazine?

  “You’re a sharp one, just like people say. Kind of like the Manhattanite itself. See, I don’t want this magazine to be the same society-worshipping drivel you see everywhere else. This magazine is going to be innovative. Smart. Witty. We’re going to turn everything on its head. While every other writer gushes about Barbara Stanwyck’s newest headband, my magazine’s going to be digging deeper. One angle I have in mind is an exposé on the flapper style.

  “What leads these women to live and die by makeup and accessories? What separates the real flappers”—he glanced at Clara—“from the shallow followers?” He cut his eyes sidelong down the bar; it took Clara a moment to realize he was looking at Coco and Leelee.

  “We need someone who already knows the underbelly of the flapper world to write smart about it. Someone like you.”

  Clara laughed. She couldn’t help it. He wanted her to write an article?

  Sure, she had always loved reading. She consumed books the way other people did water. Sherwood Anderson or F. Scott Fitzgerald, Edna Ferber or Pearl S. Buck, it rarely mattered what the book was about—if it was bound between covers, it would find its way into her hands. And yes, she’d thought about writing for a magazine, but thinking and doing were two very different things. What if she was terrible at it?

  She shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m not a writer.”

  Parker chuckled and leaned in closer. “Just because you haven’t written anything doesn’t mean you’re not a writer. I used to hear about you from my friends at Columbia. They always talked about your stories—all your wild escapades. You were always so cuttingly witty, the life of the party. All I’m asking you to do is write that stuff down so people can read it. And you can get paid for it.”

  “I already told you—I’m done with that life,” Clara said.

  “But that’s why you’re perfect for this!” he replied. “We don’t want someone who’s dazzled by the glitz and glamour. We want someone who’s seen the dark side and has the cleverness to tell our readers all about it. You’ll go to the parties, sure, but you’ll be there as a reporter, ready to jot down every biting detail once you get home.”

  She felt a slight smile cross her lips. “You think I’d betray my friends so easily? I think you’re underestimating my integrity, Mr. Richards.”

  “And I think you’re underestimating your own talent,” he shot back. He slid a glossy magazine out of his briefcase. The Manhattanite was written in an elegant script at the top. On the cover, a beautiful model with a dark bob and a short sheath dress shot a come-hither glance over her shoulder. Her smile was close-lipped and mischievous.

  Parker tucked a business card into the magazine and handed it to Clara. “Give this a read and get back to me.” He put on his gray derby and stepped close, whispering into her ear, “I bet you’ll be a better writer than anyone in there.”

  Clara nodded, a little shaken by his nearness. “I’ll think about it.”

  He tipped his hat in her direction. And he was gone.

  It was an impossible proposition. This gig would be the exact opposite of what she’d promised herself she would do. It would force her to submerge herself in the very parties and people she’d sworn to leave behind.

  There was no way she could do it. And yet …

  Writing for the magazine, Clara wouldn’t just be the ex-flapper, or the fake country belle, or Marcus Eastman’s girlfriend. She would be a writer. A dream she’d never thought would actually come true.

  “Excuse me,” she called to the bartender. “Could I ha
ve a whiskey on the rocks?”

  She shouldn’t be drinking, but if she was going to settle back into the late-night world of flappers and speakeasies—a sleek machine that ran on gin and vodka—then she was going to need some practice.

  VERA

  Vera stood near the clock in Grand Central Station and waited.

  It had been nearly a week since she’d followed Gloria from the post office and intervened between her and the mysterious Sunglasses Woman. She’d missed a golden opportunity to follow Gloria. She’d lost her best chance of finding out where Jerome was living. Of warning him. Of saving him.

  She’d mailed the note to Jerome, and here she was—waiting—but he’d yet to show up. Had he not received the note, or did he not want to see her?

  She snapped out of her reverie when Evan stepped up beside her. “Vera! You’ll never guess what happened—I landed a gig!” He let out a happy laugh. “A buddy back in Chicago told me to try the old Club De Luxe on a Hundred and Forty-Second. They’ve been searching nonstop for new talent since they relaunched as the Cotton Club last year. It’s the real McCoy, with cats like Duke Ellington and Bessie Smith playing every weekend. I auditioned and a guy called Big Frenchy hired me on the spot.”

  Evan pulled some folded bills out of his pocket. It was more than what they’d brought with them. “He even gave me an advance so we can get rooms for each of us in a boardinghouse,” he said. “Isn’t that great?”

  “Of course it is,” Vera said. After a week of sleeping on the couches of friends-of-friends-of-friends, her very own room sounded like heaven. “A club like that—that will be so amazing for your career.”

  Evan could clearly tell something was wrong. “No sign of Jerome? There’s time. Think about it—we’ve barely been here a week and you’ve already seen Gloria. Jerome can’t be far away. You’ve got to relax.” Evan thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. We’ll walk over to Central Park. Get your mind off things.”

  “You know where that is?” Vera asked.

  “Sure—it’s in the name. It’s gotta be central, don’t it?”

  Vera didn’t know what to make of what she was feeling.

  They walked hand in hand, and with every passing second, pleasant shocks ran through her fingers and up her arm. Even if Evan just thought he was being a good friend, it was nice to pretend that he might be something more.

  As they walked, they passed a few families, mostly white. Everyone was in a cheerful mood, and one little girl with blond pigtails hopped up and down as she asked if she could feed the ducks. To everyone else in Manhattan, Vera supposed, it was just a beautiful summer afternoon. Right before they reached the park, Evan stopped outside a grocery store.

  “I need to pop in here for a second,” he said. He came out fifteen minutes later with a large bag.

  Vera looked at the sack. “So what’d you get?”

  “Just some odds and ends,” he said with a smile.

  They’d walked only a little farther when he stopped outside another market. He emerged with another, smaller sack and again refused to tell her what he’d bought.

  Across the street from the park, he irritatingly ducked into yet another store. When he walked out with yet another sack, Vera said, “Okay, it’s not funny anymore. What have you got in the sacks?”

  “Stuff,” he said. “Dunno when you became so nosy.”

  Vera rolled her eyes and crossed the street with him, and they entered the park.

  Someone had taken a vast slice of everything Vera loved about the outdoors and dropped it smack in the middle of this hard, gray metropolis. Rolling oceans of green grass stretched as far as she could see, and everywhere she looked was some new lovely thing—wide pools of water, towering trees full of chirping birds, wooden gazebos laced with wisteria vines—the park seemed to go on and on. “It’s so beautiful,” she said quietly.

  “That it is,” Evan agreed.

  A group of teenagers on shining bicycles raced past, and Evan and Vera followed them deeper into the park. People seemed to be everywhere: sitting on benches or lying on blankets or walking hand in hand. Some young men were tossing a football back and forth in a broad, grassy field.

  Evan stopped beside a large cypress tree and set the sacks on the ground. “See, now, I think this is a fine spot for a picnic.” From one sack he pulled a checkered blanket and spread it on the grass, and started laying out the food he’d procured: a loaf of bread, jars of peanut butter and strawberry jelly, a tin of cookies. The last sack contained a bottle of soda water and some cheap silverware and cups.

  “I know it’s sandwiches again, but I’m hoping the combination of the natural atmosphere and the extreme adorableness of the gesture will—”

  Vera cut him off by enveloping him in a hug. She squeezed him so tight he coughed.

  “It’s not that nice a picnic!”

  “This is amazing, thank you,” she said softly into his ear. She’d had a few beaux since she started working at the Green Mill, but no boy had ever done anything like this for her. “Though it makes it slightly less adorable when you point out its adorableness before I do.”

  Evan laughed and straightened his bow tie. The two of them sat down and began making their late lunch or very early dinner.

  Once they were both munching on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Vera leaned back and grinned. “So, Evan, is this how you impress all your girls? By showing them your master-chef sandwich-making skills?”

  Evan wiped the peanut butter off his hands with a napkin. “Who are these girls you’re talkin’ about? Not that I’d mind having so many that you had to refer to them as all my girls.”

  She smirked. “Really, though. You must’ve had girlfriends at some point.” Back before she’d dropped out of school, she’d known plenty of good-looking boys. Girls followed them around and drew hearts around their initials in school-books. And those boys hadn’t been anywhere near as talented or handsome as Evan.

  He shook his head. “Not really. I liked a dame or two back in my time, but I was always more focused on my music.”

  “You and Jerome both,” Vera said. She took a sip of soda water. “He was always raising hell with my parents, telling them he wanted to be like Jelly Roll Morton rather than work in a grocery store like our daddy.”

  “Yeah, my mom wasn’t too enthusiastic, either, after Dad passed on. I always felt kinda sorry for my brother, Rodney. There he was, going to school and getting good grades, and there I was, sneaking out at night to play gigs and getting all the attention.” Evan peered at her. “Did you ever feel like that with Jerome?”

  Had she?

  Her brother had always been the star—that much was clear. But Vera had never resented him for it. She loved him. But maybe there was a tiny bit of resentment buried somewhere deep underneath her skin. Was that what had led her to betray Jerome and Gloria?

  “Jerome was a piano prodigy,” she finally said. “He’ll always be the one in the spotlight. Even now. I’m putting my entire life on hold for my big brother.” She frowned as she realized how awful that sounded. “Ugh, I’m a terrible person.”

  Evan reached over to catch her hand in his. “No, you’re not. What you’re doing is pretty damn selfless, if you ask me.”

  Vera looked down at Evan’s fingers entwined with hers. As they sat in this beautiful park with the wind blowing through the tree branches overhead, his hand felt … alive. Vera rubbed her thumb in small circles on his palm. “So, you said you haven’t been out with too many girls. Would you consider this a date?”

  In the slightly confusing silence that followed, she felt her heart beating just a little bit faster than it had all day.

  “No, I wouldn’t.” Evan laughed as her shoulders slumped. “But I wouldn’t say it’s not a date, either.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that. “Well, it’s the best not-a-date I’ve ever been on.”

  Evan took a bite of his sandwich. “Me too, Miss Johnson. Me too.”
>
  GLORIA

  St. Louis woman with her diamond rings

  Pulls that man round by her apron strings.

  T’weren’t for powder and for store-bought hair,

  The man I love wouldn’t go nowhere.

  Gloria blinked in surprise when Jerome stopped playing. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Sheet music marked up with notes in both Gloria’s and Jerome’s handwriting was strewn all over the piano and kitchen table. They’d spent the morning trying to figure out what she would sing for her debut at the Opera House. “St. Louis Blues” was one of her first choices.

  “Don’t be afraid to let yourself go,” Jerome said. “This whole song is a buildup of emotion. You start out just moaning about being sad, but by verse three, you’re finally able to belt out everything you feel. Understand?”

  Gloria nodded. Practicing with Jerome had come a long way since the time when he’d explained to her how to breathe with her diaphragm in the dingy basement piano room at the Green Mill. These days he was teaching her how to maintain volume and control her phrasing. And he was teaching her about nuance, about interpretation: how to convince the audience to feel the songs as though she were singing just for them.

  There was still so much to learn. How could she ever hope to make it as a professional singer? But then Jerome would stop, take her in his lithe piano player’s arms, and whisper that anybody who didn’t think they could always learn something new was just silly—everyone could get better and better.

  “Even you?” Gloria would ask, resting her head on his shoulder.

  “Especially me,” Jerome would say.

  Now he began again to play the short, woeful introduction. “Let’s start from the top.”

  Gloria straightened up, breathed deeply, and began to sing:

  I hate to see the evening sun go down.

  I hate to see the evening sun go down.

  ’Cause my baby, he done left this town.

  Jerome banged the keys hard and stopped playing. “You need to get out of your head.” He pointed to the area a few inches south of his throat. “This is where the song needs to come from. Let’s try again.”