Diva

by Jillian Larkin

  Speaking of Forrest … Gloria looked up as he walked across the lawn and onto the patio. Surely he must have been the best-looking Broadway producer in the business—not that she cared whether he was handsome, of course.

  He wore a gray seersucker suit with a crisp white shirt. His tie was dark blue, and a white handkerchief peeked out of his pocket. His cheeks were freshly shaven. “Good morning, ladies! I expected to find you enjoying the pool in this heat.”

  Glamour rolled over onto her stomach. “The water would ruin my tan. And you’re one to talk in that heavy jacket. How about you throw on your swim trunks and join us?”

  “I’d love to, but just now I’m off to the bookstore to stock my library.”

  “Ugh, that big empty room is so gloomy,” Glitz observed.

  “Oh, but it’ll be much less gloomy once the shelves are filled!” Forrest’s brown eyes glinted under his trilby hat. “Any of you ladies care to take a break from sunbathing to come along?”

  Glitz cocked her head to the side. “That depends. Will there be drinking?”

  “Only the drinking of knowledge,” Forrest answered with a smile free from irony.

  “I like my knowledge with a side of schnapps,” Glitz said.

  “But bringing liquor into a bookstore—that’s like carrying a flask into a church!” Forrest exclaimed with a playful curve to his lips but sincerity in his eyes. “Actually, it’s worse. I’d probably do that second thing. I plan to enjoy these books for a good long time. If we pick them out zozzled, I’ll probably end up with a library full of terrible books with hilarious titles.”

  Gloria smiled. She’d never seen a man so excited about books. Forrest should’ve been a complete contradiction—a man with a serious love of literature who also had a mansion full of dissolute young things with names like Glitz and Glamour. But he managed to walk the tightrope between intellectual and playboy beautifully, and be all the more likable for it. Gloria leaped out of her lawn chair. “I’ll go! I haven’t got much of a tan to work on anyway.”

  Forrest offered his arm. “Then we’ll head back to the house so you can get changed.” Once they were out of earshot of the two blondes, Forrest said, “Between you and me, I’ve always found pale skin far more attractive.”

  Gloria blushed. “Ruby has lovely skin,” she said quickly. “Will she and her husband be coming along, too?”

  “I wish she could—she always has some new author or poet to recommend to me.” The words tumbled out of Forrest’s mouth. For all his usual self-assurance, Forrest shifted into an overeager boy whenever he spoke of Ruby. “Like that T. S. Eliot fellow! I’d never heard of him till Ruby lent me a book of his poems. Now I’ve read it through about a dozen times. But Ruby’s too busy reading scripts all day to come with us. With Marty looking over her shoulder, no doubt.”

  Gloria frowned. Hank could send her all the sequined and gold lamé masterpieces he wanted, but it seemed that Forrest only had eyes for someone else: Ruby Hayworth.

  So how exactly was Gloria going to stay out of jail?

  Forrest groaned. “Oh, not that Fitzgerald kid again! I could barely stay awake through his first book. So overrated.”

  “This Side of Paradise wasn’t really my cup of tea, either.” Gloria waved the book in her hand. “This one is different, though. It’s about flappers.” She thought of her friends in the city. What was Clara up to now? And that viper Lorraine—Gloria would be happy never to see her again.

  Forrest took the copy of The Beautiful and Damned, opened it, and read the inside flap. “I think you only like it because the leading lady has your name.”

  Gloria laughed. “From what I hear, her name might as well be Zelda.” The two continued down the aisles of Scribner’s, commenting on leather-bound volumes they had read, wanted to read, or would never, ever read even under threat of death. “You’re one to talk about boring literature. You’re buying a book of Sherlock Holmes stories!”

  “What could ever be boring about the life of London’s most brilliant detective?” Forrest asked.

  “So predictable! I don’t recall Fitzgerald ending every one of his stories with the hero emerging from a cloud of opium smoke, magically ready to save the day.”

  “Mmm, that’s exactly my problem with him.”

  Gloria laughed again. Much as she tried to focus on getting information out of Forrest, it was hard to do anything but enjoy herself.

  “I like you, Gloria,” Forrest observed, echoing her thoughts. “It’s nice to talk to a girl who knows she can use her brain for more than pairing shoes with the right dress.”

  Gloria smiled. She had actually spent a considerable amount of time choosing the right pumps to go with her floral day dress. “I like you, too, Forrest.”

  And it was true: She did like Forrest. His sudden wealth might have been suspicious, but this sweet, earnest boy was a world away from the money-grubbing gangsters Gloria had tangled with for the past year.

  “We have a lot in common,” Forrest went on. “We’ve both taken the hard route in life.” He casually hooked his arm through hers. “Followed our hearts no matter what—even when the people close to us sold their dreams for thirty pieces of silver.”

  Gloria blinked, unsure of his meaning. “Forrest, what do you—?”

  But he had already abandoned her for another tall maple bookcase. Gloria sighed. Whenever Forrest got close to saying something the least bit personal about himself, he was always off on some new tack the very next second. Was he just easily distracted, or was there something more sinister at work? She let out another sigh and followed him.

  Forrest held up a thick volume and handed it to Gloria. “Now I have a book for you,” he said triumphantly.

  A Passage to India, the cover read at the top, and, below, E. M. Forster, in red against an off-white background.

  Gloria turned it over in her hands, frowning. “I’m not really much for traveling narratives.…”

  “It’s not that at all, though! It’s all about the terrible way the British have been treating the Indians ever since they took over the country.”

  “Oh! Well, I guess that could be interesting.”

  “Forster’s got real courage,” Forrest explained, leading her farther down the aisle. “While Fitzgerald spins his dizzy parties, this man writes about what really matters. He’s willing to tackle the bigotry and ugliness in other parts of the world.”

  She gave a grim chuckle, thinking of Jerome, how people glared at him on the street. Of the way they’d had to sneak around to live together. “A lot of that goes on right here in America. Too bad no one’s writing about that.”

  Gloria glanced at the floor, her heartbeat quickening. She hadn’t meant to sound so bitter.

  But when Forrest’s eyes flicked toward her, they were full of sympathy. “You’re right. Maybe that writer cousin of yours could write a book about you and Jerome Johnson.”

  Gloria raised her eyebrows and felt her stomach twitter—hearing Jerome’s name come out of Forrest’s mouth seemed wrong. “When we met I got the feeling you didn’t know much about my case.”

  “I didn’t. But I’ve read up on you. And I think what you’ve done is inspiring. I’m sure a lot of people wish they could be as brave as you.” He stared right at her for a moment, as if about to say something, then looked away. “How is your piano player, by the way? He’s welcome to post letters to you here, I hope you know.”

  Gloria had never heard someone with Forrest’s skin color sound so open to the idea of her relationship with Jerome. She knew Hank would want her to say she’d broken things off with Jerome—so Forrest would think she was available—but she couldn’t help telling the truth. “I haven’t heard from him in nearly two weeks.” She exhaled slowly. “I’m so worried about him.”

  Forrest patted her shoulder. “Oh, Gloria, I’m sorry.”

  “I know it’s not that long, really, but—”

  “Are you kidding? I bet he used to write you every day. I know I wo
uld if I had a girl like you.” He paused and scratched his chin. “It must have been hard for him to see you behind bars. Maybe that’s why you haven’t heard from him recently.”

  “Jerome wasn’t allowed to visit me in jail, and neither was his sister, Vera.”

  “You’re close with Jerome’s sister?”

  “We didn’t exactly get along at first. But when she got back to Chicago, she wrote to apologize for how wrong she’d been about me. And then I wrote her back, and she wrote me back, and now we’ve got a big stack of letters between us. Vera’s a wonderful girl, once you get past that top layer of sass.”

  “Oh, I remember Vera from the articles! She ran all over New York with that trumpet player looking for the two of you.”

  “And now she’s going to marry him.” Gloria smiled a little. As hard as the summer had been, Vera and Evan’s engagement had been a happy result of it all. “You paid close attention to those stories, didn’t you?”

  “It wasn’t hard. That Clara Knowles has got some serious wit. You must be proud, huh? Not even twenty and she’s already got a serious writing career going.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Gloria began.

  And before she knew it, she was laying out the ups and downs of Clara’s life—how she’d been sent to live with Gloria and found true love with Marcus, and then how she’d later lied to him and broken both their hearts. Gloria kept expecting Forrest to grow bored with her stories, but he didn’t; he asked questions and seemed to understand just how painful it had been to have two of her closest friends in the world break up and know there was nothing she could do to bring them back together. “They’re tailor made for each other,” Gloria said.

  “Sounds like it,” Forrest said with real sympathy.

  The more she talked and the longer he listened, the clearer it became to Gloria that Forrest was no villain, no matter what Hank and the FBI believed.

  Until Gloria had met Jerome, she’d always been taught that women were meant to be seen and not heard in the presence of men. The way Forrest admired Clara’s writing reminded her of how Jerome had encouraged Gloria’s singing career. Like Jerome, Forrest seemed convinced that with intelligence and talent, a girl’s dreams could take her wherever she cared to go.

  “Now Marcus says he’s in love with this new girl,” Gloria finished. “But I’m afraid he’s jumping into this marriage too fast.”

  “That is fast,” Forrest agreed as they approached the cashier at the front of the bookstore. “But when you get your heart broken … it’s tough, trying to figure out how you’re supposed to put it back together. I think everybody makes mistakes when it comes to that,” he added a little wistfully.

  “Like you?” she replied without thinking. “Sorry, you just sounded like you were speaking from experience. Want to tell me about it? I’ve been talking so long already.”

  Forrest looked at his expensive gold watch. “Another time, Gloria. We’ve got to get a wiggle on. But first …” He moved to a table with several volumes laid on top. He picked up a book and dropped it into the basket he’d been carrying. Then he walked toward the cashier and took his place in the long line of customers.

  Gloria followed. “What’s that last book?”

  “That’s the book I’m buying for you.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to. I’m already planning to steal A Passage to India.”

  He laughed. “And you’re free to borrow it. But I wanted to buy you one to keep.” He pulled the book out of his basket and handed it to her. “It only just came out, but people are already saying it should snag the Pulitzer for Edna Ferber.”

  “So Big,” Gloria read on the cover. “I hope that’s not some kind of comment on my looks.”

  “God, no, you’re too skinny as it is. See, the book’s about a girl—a teacher—named Selina. Everyone else thinks getting rich should be the only goal in life, but Selina teaches her kids to follow their dreams.” Forrest paused. “She reminds me a lot of you.”

  Gloria’s cheeks flamed. “Thanks,” she managed to choke out.

  When they reached the cashier, Forrest began stacking book after book on the counter. Lastly he slapped down The Beautiful and Damned. Gloria was pleased to see he hadn’t put it back as she’d thought he would. “Don’t get too excited, Gloria,” Forrest said when he noticed her expression. “I’m buying this for Ruby. I want her to star in Moonshine Melody. I hope this wins her over.”

  Gloria watched Forrest’s face as he gazed at the book. His features lit up—with hope or love or maybe just the thought of Ruby. She suspected that Forrest wanted to win more than just Ruby’s name on a contract.

  He nodded at the elderly cashier and gestured at the books on the counter. “Now, we’ll take all of these, and then I wanted to also order fifty yards of books, chosen by your manager. I spoke to him the other day, and he said he’d fill my library. I don’t have time to pick and choose all of the books to fill the shelves. I’ll pay on delivery.”

  “Of course, sir,” the cashier replied.

  Gloria studied Forrest for a moment and decided she liked him. He seemed kind—a gentleman—and was a patron of the arts, which she admired. But also he seemed real, as though maybe he, too, knew the struggles of life and love not just from books, but from personal experience.

  It was going to be such a shame when she turned him over to the FBI.

  CLARA

  “You wouldn’t believe it from how she looks in her films, but she’s a tiny little thing,” Parker explained, swilling his martini. “Barely five feet tall.”

  “Really?” Clara asked with more interest than she felt.

  “Really! But the woman has presence, all right. She may be small, but Gloria Swanson fills every room she enters with that wondrous charisma of hers.”

  Why did Parker think his stories needed to be dotted with celebrities to be interesting? It was pathetic. “Mmm. Was she wearing her peacock feathers when you met her?”

  “Ostrich, actually.”

  Clara pasted a smile on her face. When she’d first come to New York what felt like a lifetime ago, Parker’s association with one of Clara’s fashion idols would’ve earned him at least a dozen points on the potential-beau scale. He’s an absolute sheik, ex-Clara would have told her girlfriends at home. He dresses well, he took me to a swanky spot, and he even knows Gloria Swanson.

  But now Clara was seeing things with clearer eyes: So he’d interviewed a celebrity; that was part of his job, wasn’t it? What was the big fuss? In the end celebrities were just people like everyone else.

  “She’ll look fantastic on this month’s cover, don’t you think?” he asked, but didn’t wait for Clara’s response. “We’ll have our highest sales to date, I’m willing to bet.” Parker went on and on, happy to bask in the glow of his own success.

  Clara looked out at the other diners. The Colony was Parker’s favorite restaurant. It was a lovely place in an understated way—silver sconces on the white wood-paneled walls, ivory pillars, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. White cloths covered the tables, and vases of poppies stood in the center of each. A person wouldn’t even know that the Prohibition amendment had been passed in a spot like this. The restaurant counted too many government officials among its regulars to ever have to worry about a gin bust.

  But people didn’t come to the Colony for the décor or the booze—they came for the stars. Clara had already spotted two Vanderbilts and three senators. Louise Brooks, the silent-film actress, demurely sipped a glass of amber liquid at a corner table, the ends of her short, dark bob flawless against her porcelain cheeks.

  Perhaps the banquette getting the most looks was that of Babe Ruth, the famed baseball player and unofficial King of New York. The big man looked as at home in a suit as he did in his Yankees uniform. He had his arm around the beautiful young girl sitting beside him—a girl who was definitely not his wife.

  Clara had wanted to sit in one of the upholstered banquettes in the back, but Parker had be
en quick to request the table by the window—where all the patrons couldn’t help but see them on walking through the restaurant’s double doors.

  For what seemed like the thousandth time that evening, someone walked over to the table. “Parker, old boy! How are you?” The man speaking was young and handsome, with a doe-eyed girl on his arm. The girl was far too young to be wearing so many diamonds.

  Parker sprang from his seat. “Robert Paddington! Clara, this is an old college buddy of mine, plays the Wall Street game now. Robert, you’ll be pleased to meet Clara Knowles. Remember all the stories we used to hear about her?”

  Robert reached over to kiss Clara’s hand. “The Queen of the Shebas, of course! Looking as beautiful as the stories say.”

  “Thank you.” Her sleeveless black silk crepe evening dress had bands of Oriental-patterned gold lamé and a two-tiered hem. The neckline was respectably high, but wide armholes gave just the right flash of skin whenever Clara moved to lift her martini.

  “That’s right! She and I are together now,” Parker said, puffing his chest out proudly. First a degree from Columbia, then a career as a successful magazine editor, then a famous flapper for a girlfriend: all stepping-stones to becoming the rich and interesting man that Parker so longed to be.

  “We work together,” Clara corrected. A few fancy dinners—most of which were spent discussing work—did not make the two of them a couple, not in her book.

  While Parker made small talk with Robert and his lady friend, Clara’s thoughts drifted back to a dinner date nowhere near as sophisticated as this one. It had been a week after Clara had arrived in New York. She and Marcus had lounged on the East River ferry, quietly baking underneath the afternoon sun.

  “Now you can proudly tell your friends that you’ve been inside the Statue of Liberty!” Marcus had exclaimed with an arm slung over her shoulder. “Explored her every nook and cranny. Compromised her virtue by climbing—”

  “Marcus!” Clara swatted him and laughed. She peered out at the aquamarine statue, which was slowly becoming smaller and smaller. “I like it much more at a distance. Up close it’s just stairs, stairs, and more stairs.”