Diva

by Jillian Larkin

  Then Gloria pivoted and found herself staring into a pair of cold gray eyes.

  She gasped. The man was about her father’s age, dressed well in a charcoal-gray suit and a scarlet bow tie. He had burly arms and a prominent scar that ran diagonally from the right side of his nose, across the bridge, and up to his left eyebrow. A thick gray mustache sat atop his upper lip, while his head was completely bald, and his eyes were only a bluish shade darker than white.

  “What are you doing?” he growled.

  Gloria hid her hands behind her back, not wanting the man to see them shaking. Why did he seem so familiar?

  “I—um—”

  “Speak up,” the man said, coming closer.

  Then it hit her: She recognized him from a photograph in Hank’s file on Forrest. His name was Pembroke, and he worked for Forrest as some sort of servant.

  “Pembroke!” she cried out.

  He seemed surprised that she knew his name. “Yes?”

  “I’m … late! To perform!” She rushed past him without waiting for a response, without looking back, even though she could feel Pembroke’s eyes on her. Watching.

  The grand room was far more crowded than it had been before. The party had truly started.

  The red-carpeted staircase curved down to the marble floor. Skylights lined the arched ceiling on either side of the room, and chandeliers dripping with crystals hung between them. At each corner stood thick ivory columns. At least two or three men and women stood around each column, kissing, laughing, smoking, or just leaning back and taking a rest from dancing. On any available surface sat delicate ivory vases filled with roses—red, white, and even some that had been dyed black. White-coated waiters moved through the crowd with silver platters of crab-stuffed mushrooms and cucumber-watercress sandwiches held high.

  On the left was a stage with a heavy gold velvet curtain and matching golden wood floor. Just in front of that spread a wide dance floor, where bobbed women and men in top hats hopped and kicked at a dizzying pace. These dancers were scary good—probably due to the fact that many of them danced on Broadway for a living.

  Groups of Forrest’s well-dressed friends gathered around various paintings on the walls, pointing with long cigarette holders as they carried on spirited discussions about the significance of each work. They seemed more intelligent and refined than anyone Gloria had met in New York or Chicago. Maybe it was because they were older, or because they had the artistic sensibilities that came with a life in the theater.

  Before Gloria even stepped onto the marble floor, a group of party guests had gathered around her. “Gloria Carmody!” a tall, handsome man exclaimed. He had slicked-back hair and couldn’t be older than thirty. He wore a red scarf looped over his formal suit, a personal touch that would’ve looked ridiculous on anyone else. “The singing jailbird! I heard you were from Chicago.” He extended his hand. “Charles LeMaire. I so love meeting other Chi-town natives, especially when their stories are as fascinating as yours!”

  “Thank you,” Gloria said, shaking his hand. “What do you do? ”

  “I’m a costume designer.” He gestured toward the two girls standing beside him. “This is Mara Livingston and Lisa Burrows—they have to wear getups made entirely of feathers in the Follies if I tell them to.”

  “He does and I did,” Lisa said. “Very itchy.” Her bob was an even deeper red than Gloria’s. She was dressed in a lime-green satin dress that seemed tame until she turned and Gloria saw that it was backless.

  “At least you didn’t perform in the Heavenly Goddess number,” Mara replied. She had light brown hair that looked blond in the right light and wore a black silk lace evening dress with an elaborate beaded pinwheel pattern. “I’m still picking the glitter out of my hair, and we performed the number three weeks ago!”

  “The Follies? As in the Ziegfeld Follies?” Gloria had to stop herself from squealing. The costume designer for the Follies knew who she was?

  Charles nodded. “So I hear from Forrest that you’re going to perform for us. What are you planning to sing? I can’t wait to finally hear that bluesy voice of yours.”

  “ ‘I Ain’t Got Nobody,’ ” Gloria replied. “Do you know it?”

  “You certainly can’t go wrong with Marion Harris,” a woman’s deep voice said. She was in her early forties and wore a tasteful peach-colored dress with a wide skirt, and she hung on the arm of a distinguished-looking man with thinning dark hair. “I interviewed her once for the Sun and she was an absolute doll.” The woman extended her hand. “Marie Mattingly Meloney.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you. And you write for the Sun?”

  “Not anymore—it wasn’t much fun once Willie wasn’t editor anymore,” Marie said, squeezing the man’s arm. “Now I’m editor of the Delineator magazine.”

  A female magazine editor! It made Gloria wish Clara were here so she could introduce her.

  She couldn’t help it: Excitement tingled in her stomach. Not only did these people know who she was, but they were excited to hear her sing! It was what Gloria had always dreamed of.

  Gloria started when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She whipped around to find Forrest standing beside a thin black man with a receding hairline and a kind smile. “There you are!” Forrest exclaimed. “I was planning to introduce you around, but it looks like you’ve already found the cream of the crop for yourself.”

  “You flatter us, Forrest,” Charles said. “But please—don’t stop.”

  Forrest chuckled. “No, really—I’m not even sure how the rest of these rascals got in here,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I’ll have to have a talk with my butler.” While the others laughed, Forrest tugged on Gloria’s arm to pull her closer. “Are you ready to wail up there, kid?”

  Gloria hadn’t even noticed that the orchestra had stopped playing. But now that she did, the party seemed distinctly less lively and romantic without it. She gave Forrest a confident smile. “If there’s one thing I’m always ready to do, it’s sing.”

  “Now, that’s an attitude I like to see,” the thin man beside Forrest said. He shook Gloria’s hand. “I’m Bernard, the band leader. My boys and I will take good care of you up there, I promise.”

  Once Gloria and Bernard had discussed the song—a tune he and his band knew well—Forrest nodded to them both. “Okay, Bernie, you come onstage with me. Gloria, you wait until I introduce you.”

  “Good luck!” her new acquaintances whispered as Forrest and Bernard climbed the steps on the left side of the stage.

  Bernard picked up his conductor’s baton and stood in front of the orchestra. The men set their drinks on the stage and picked up their instruments. Forrest approached the microphone and the crowd’s roar hushed to a dull murmur.

  “I hope you’re all having a fantastic evening!” Forrest called. “And let’s have another round of applause for the Blue Rhythm Orchestra!” The room filled with hoots and whistles. “Now, I know many of you may have heard that the beautiful and talented Ruby Hayworth would be singing tonight. But I have, with no offense to Ruby, an even more enticing treat for you all.

  “Some of you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting one of my most honored guests. For those of you who live under a rock and don’t know her story, she’s a woman who was wrongly imprisoned after shooting a gangster to save the life of the man she loved. She also happens to be a very talented singer. She’d like to celebrate her recent release from the big house by gracing us with a song! So without further ado, may I introduce the Diva of the Downtrodden, the Songbird of the Wrongfully Accused—performing under her own name at long last—Gloria Carmody!”

  The crowd exploded into applause. Gloria took one last deep breath and made her way through the crowd to the stage stairs. Then she took her place at center stage. Her heart was hammering in her chest—this was by far the largest group she’d ever sung in front of. But Ruby was right. The frightening thrill of it was what made singing so exhilarating.

  The music began to s
well, and even though a million thoughts were running through her mind—thoughts about Jerome, Forrest and Ruby, Hank—there was nothing she could do now except what she’d been born to do.

  Sing.

  CLARA

  Clara wanted to slap that smug grin right off Parker’s face.

  She didn’t know what bothered her more—Parker’s constant bragging and self-congratulation, or how every guest but her at Forrest Hamilton’s party seemed completely bewitched by him.

  “She said I could come see her in Los Angeles whenever I happen to be in town,” Parker explained to his friends.

  Two men and three women scrunched together on a dusky red davenport. The group had left the main room of the party and were holed up in one of the studies, where it was quieter. The men grinned in awe at Parker’s story, while the girls all sought desperately to meet Parker’s jade eyes. When Parker wasn’t looking, these women fluffed their bobs and checked their makeup in the mirror on the wall. They were trying to be subtle and they were failing miserably.

  Parker and Clara stood across from the group; Parker had explained the oh-so-impressive ways in which he’d met each of these flat tires, but Clara hadn’t really been listening. So far this evening had been a total waste of Clara’s favorite dark blue Chanel evening dress.

  Now Parker pulled Clara’s arm tighter around his own. “But I guess I won’t be doing that anytime soon. Not now that I’ve got this knockout by my side.”

  Clara smiled and dug her red fingernails into his arm. Hopefully he could feel it through his linen suit.

  “Aw, come on, it’s Madge Bellamy!” a handsome swell in white exclaimed. Clara had already forgotten his name. “I think Clara would understand.”

  “He’s absolutely right,” Clara said. “You go off to Hollywood to wine and dine the pretty little actress. Meanwhile, I’ll take over the Manhattanite and turn it into something actually worth reading.”

  Parker laughed with the others, but Clara could see annoyance in his eyes. “I discovered her and taught Clara everything she knows, I’m happy to confess.”

  “You’ve always had an eye for talent, Parker,” said a brunette beauty in a sparkling sheath, fluttering her lashes.

  Parker’s cigarette dangled elegantly between his fingers and his green eyes lit up with interest as the brunette began to tell a story about running into Charlie Chaplin at the 21 Club. Parker looked like he was posing for a photograph, just like everyone else at Forrest Hamilton’s party.

  Clara had been hoping to find more stimulating conversation, but alas—she hadn’t. She’d left the dance floor when she saw a girl in an orange beaded dress dance the treacherously fast quick-time fox-trot with a man in a blue suit. Their moves were perfect, without even the hint of a stumble, their faces etched with the self-satisfied, determined smiles of people eager to impress.

  It had annoyed her.

  Everyone at this party was trying so hard to prove how wonderful and interesting they were. These flappers and swells were supposed to be the most fun-loving people in the world. But what time was there for fun when a person had to put so much effort into having it?

  “You know, Hamilton’s a Broadway producer!” Parker’s oh-so-admiring brunette friend exclaimed, startling Clara out of her reverie. “Harold and I have invested in his new show, Moonshine Melody.”

  The much-older man sitting beside her nodded. “No one liked The Cat’s Meow, but a man this young with so much money—this Forrest Hamilton must have some idea what he’s doing.”

  “Mmm, because if he’s got money, he must be talented!” Clara said. No one but Parker caught her sarcastic tone. “It’s not like anyone ever made a dishonest dollar in show business. Like Parker here!” she continued. “He makes his living trying to guess which starlet might have an affair next and which ones are married to crooks.”

  The mood of the group grew a bit sour. Parker loosened his collar and narrowed his eyes at Clara. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said.

  He grabbed Clara’s wrist and steered her out of the room and down the hallway, back to where the party was in full swing. She could hear the faint sounds of someone, a girl with a pretty voice, singing with the band. “What has gotten into you?” Parker asked in a hushed voice.

  Clara backed up. Was he serious? “What’s gotten into me? What about you? Where do you think you got the right to call me your Clara?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “We’ve been together for weeks now—”

  “No! No, we have not,” Clara said. It had been a stupid idea to come here with Parker. She hadn’t been able to get up the courage to embarrass him in front of his friends. And anyway, what good would it have done? It probably would’ve just gotten Clara fired. Bursting in and making a scene without thinking of the consequences—that was more horrid Lorraine Dyer’s style. Clara just needed to put an end to this … whatever it was Parker thought was going on between them, once and for all. No matter the consequences.

  “We’ve gone to dinner twice,” Clara went on, seething. “Where do you get off bragging to everyone in New York that you and I are an item—ugh! I have half a mind to slap you across the face.” She raised her clutch as though to strike him.

  Parker ducked, then opened his mouth and closed it, at a loss for what to say.

  “You don’t care about me—all you care about is yourself. I’m just one more trophy on your way to the top!”

  Parker’s cheeks reddened. “Clara, lower your voice.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.”

  Clara whipped around and walked away without looking back. She could faintly hear Parker call her name, but she quickly let herself get lost in the crowd.

  And ran straight into a girl in a red dress, sloshing half the girl’s martini onto the marble floor.

  “I’m so sor—” Clara began. But as she took in the girl’s dark brown bob, wide hazel eyes, and too-smoky eye makeup, the words died on her lips. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  Lorraine latched on to Clara’s arm with her free hand. “Why, Clara Knowles! I’m so glad you’re here!” Lorraine said with a slightly desperate smile. A diminutive blonde in a white dress who looked way too nice and normal to be friends with Lorraine stood beside her. “We need to talk.”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” Clara snapped, yanking her arm away. “And don’t ever touch me again.”

  A very tiny part of Clara wanted to know what Lorraine Dyer was doing here. But she couldn’t imagine a person she wanted to see—or chat with—less. Lorraine was just one more reminder of Chicago. Of Marcus. And Clara couldn’t bear to think about her ex-boyfriend just now. Don’t cry, she told herself.

  Clara whipped her head around, trying to find an escape route, when a tall redheaded boy with thick-framed glasses appeared and blocked her in.

  “Raine, I’ve been looking all over for you. You said you and Becky were just going to get drinks!” His brown suit hung baggy on his thin frame. He might have been cute, but the oversized glasses made it nearly impossible to tell.

  “It was crowded at the bar,” the blonde girl—Becky—said dreamily, “but I think I saw Rudolph Valentino!”

  Lorraine ignored them. “Clara, I’m not playing any games this time.” She waved a hand in the air. “I’ve turned over a new leaf! A whole tree of new leaves! I haven’t had a drink in eight weeks!”

  Clara pointed to the half-empty martini glass in Lorraine’s hand.

  Lorraine’s face twisted. “Other than this one!”

  “She’s telling the truth,” Becky said. “She’s been sober as a nun.”

  Clara groaned. “I don’t care whether you’re drier than the Gobi; I don’t want to have anything to do with you.” She shoved past them.

  As she walked away, she half recognized a few faces from the Manhattan party scene: a handsome man wearing a top hat, a blonde in shimmering gold lamé. What were their names? Maybe she could convince one of them to give her a ride home.…

  “This isn’t
about me!” Clara heard Lorraine call out from behind her. “It’s about Marcus!”

  Clara stopped dead in her tracks.

  Marcus. She couldn’t escape him for even a few minutes, could she? They were no longer together, he was about to marry someone else, yet even now hearing his name gave her chills. It called him up where he was always lurking at the surface of her memory, and suddenly it was as if he were standing right next to her, looking dapper and slightly amused, one blond eyebrow raised, a smile quirking the corners of his lips, just before kissing her ever so lightly at the nape of her neck.

  “He’s in mortal danger!” Lorraine yelled, causing several guests to glance over.

  Before Clara even realized what she was doing, she marched her patent-leather heels right back to Lorraine. She crossed her arms and looked up at the taller girl. “Mortal danger? Really, Lorraine? Start talking. This had better be good.”

  As soon as Lorraine opened her in-desperate-need-of-blotting mouth to speak, she froze with her eyes fixed on the stage. Ruby was still singing—she was absolutely killing it. Clara had never seen the Broadway star’s hit show, but her voice definitely sounded familiar. Lorraine’s mouth continued to hang open. “Oh my God,” she finally said.

  Clara whipped around to face the stage. And she saw that the singer wasn’t Ruby Hayworth at all. It was Gloria.

  “Seriously?” Clara said. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  LORRAINE

  Lorraine always thought that if heartbreak were a sound, it would be like shattering glass or the angry screech of a halting train. But Gloria Carmody’s voice was pure heartbreak, all right, and it sounded fantastic.

  Her old friend looked beyond beautiful. Gloria’s short, flame-red hair waved softly around her doll-like face like some kind of halo. She’d gained some of her weight back since her stint at the Opera House, but those sharp cheekbones and that world-weary depth in her big, pale eyes were here to stay. Her dress was pink, as it had been the night of her first and only performance at the Opera House. But that dress had been pale pink—just a rosy shade darker than white. Lorraine remembered thinking how well the color would’ve suited the blushing ingenue Gloria had once been. This dress was a deep, sultry pink that suited the full-blown diva Gloria had become. This Gloria knew men, life, and love—and she knew how to make the audience feel all she’d been through with a flash of her emerald eyes. She wasn’t the by-the-book deb Lorraine had grown up with, but she wasn’t the beaten-down, desperate woman who’d walked in to audition at the Opera House, either.