No, the Gloria who held her hand to her chest, closed her eyes, and wailed onstage was someone else altogether.
I ain’t got nobody,
And nobody cares for me
That’s why I’m sad and lonely,
Say, won’t you just take a chance with me?
’Cause I’ll sing sweet love songs all the time
If you will be a pal of mine
’Cause I ain’t got nobody,
And nobody cares for me.
Through everything, Gloria had never completely lost her adorably naïve innocence, that hopeful fire that had allowed her to march into a love affair with a black man without looking back. Now Gloria’s innocence had just been bruised. The audience could see it in the way Gloria sometimes hugged herself as she sang, the faraway look she got in her eyes. But that vulnerability made her even more fetching and compelling. Gloria Carmody didn’t just sing the blues—she lived them; she was their very essence.
As Gloria wailed on about her sorrow and loneliness, it made Lorraine wonder where Jerome Johnson was. Gloria was so convincing when she sang about her broken heart. Had something gone wrong between her and her fiancé?
As soon as Gloria finished singing, the room exploded into deafening applause. Before Gloria had come onstage, small groups had been convening around the furniture scattered throughout the room—playing cards on the wooden coffee tables, sitting in cushioned chairs around the dark fireplace, lounging on the long couches and davenports that stood near the ivory walls. Now those cards lay forgotten on deserted tables, and several guests had dragged their chairs and couches closer to the stage and dance floor. Lorraine could barely see Gloria over the heads of the scores of men who’d risen from their seats. Everyone in the large room had leaped to their feet with such enthusiasm that more than one flute of champagne had tumbled to the floor.
The guests chanted “Encore, encore” until Gloria whispered to the band, taking the mike for a second time.
Clara’s silver bangle slipped down to her elbow as she brushed away tears. “I keep thinking she can’t get any better, and then she goes and does something like that.” In her amazement at Gloria’s performance, she seemed to Lorraine to have forgotten how angry she’d been a few minutes earlier.
Which meant Lorraine needed to tell Clara about Marcus now.
The bald piano player banged out a short, upbeat introduction, his shoulders rocking. This was the orchestra that had been playing all night, but they had found a new energy with Gloria onstage. She turned to give the musicians a dazzling smile before she launched into a faster tune.
There ain’t nothin’ I can do or nothin’ I can say
That folks don’t criticize me
But I’m going to do just as I want to anyway
And don’t care if they all despise me.
Many of the guests abandoned their chairs and couches for the dance floor, shaking and shimmying all over the place. Lorraine gulped down the rest of her second martini before someone’s jabbing elbow could knock it out of her hands. She’d already sacrificed half a drink on her night of freedom—she wasn’t going to let any more good booze go to waste.
“That’s Gloria Carmody?” Becky asked, her brown eyes full of awe. “The way you described her, I expected her to be less … just less, I think.”
“Yeah, gosh, isn’t she amazing?” Melvin exclaimed with a goofy smile.
No one, not even Lorraine’s best friends at school, could help falling head over heels in love with Gloria Carmody. Didn’t they remember the way she had abandoned Lorraine, how she had believed Lorraine would tell Gloria’s then fiancé Bastian about her affair with Jerome back in Chicago?
“She’s okay, I guess,” Lorraine replied, fuming.
Melvin shook his head. “Don’t worry, Raine, I still think you’re prettier.” Lorraine brightened a little at that.
She felt that oh-so-familiar twinge of jealousy when she looked at Gloria’s glamorous cousin. Tonight Clara wore a red-carpet-worthy dress of sapphire tulle. The torso was decorated with Egyptian motifs made of iridescent sequins, and the semisheer skirt fell to her knees. Her blond bob was swept off to the side and pinned back with a blue-feathered hairpin.
Lorraine pushed her envy away. It would be one huge understatement to say that she and Clara had had their differences in the past. But if Raine was going to save Marcus, she’d need Clara’s help. When she had spied Clara from the bar she’d known it was a sign. She and Clara were meant to drag Marcus away from that gold-digging roundheel.
Now she just had to convince Clara of that.
Lorraine tugged on her arm. Clara frowned. “Not now, Lorraine—Gloria’s still singing.”
“This is important!” Lorraine insisted. “Come on!”
Reluctantly, Clara allowed herself to be led between twisting and turning couples and under the waiters’ silver serving platters. But her narrowed blue-gray eyes showed that she didn’t like it one bit.
Lorraine smiled while she marched through the crowd with Clara. No one whispered behind their hands as Lorraine passed or cut angry glares in her direction. They didn’t notice her at all! Once upon a time Lorraine had loved being the center of attention. But now it felt so nice to be free of the shady reputation that clung to her like some kind of disease in the city. Here the only looks she got were from the women who admired her dress and the men who admired everything else.
This was what Lorraine hoped it would be like at Barnard, once she’d secured Marcus’s friendship and the popularity that would come with it.
Finally, Lorraine followed a white-suited man with coffee-and-cream skin through a swinging white door into a bustling kitchen. It didn’t seem like the kind of kitchen that would be in a person’s home: Several men assembled cucumber sandwiches and shrimp cocktails on a wide steel table while others squirted delicate twists of whipped cream onto decadent miniature chocolate cakes to prepare for the dessert course later on.
The men were all black and acted as though Lorraine and Clara were invisible. They didn’t even look up when Melvin shuffled through the door a few moments after Clara and Lorraine, dusting the remains of a deviled egg off his coat.
“Scram, Melvin, this is a private conversation!” Lorraine yelled at him.
“But I don’t know anyone else here—”
“Can’t you socialize for once in your life instead of just mooning after me all the time?” Lorraine glanced at Clara to find her scowling. Was she actually getting angry on Melvin’s behalf? “You can talk to Becky,” Lorraine said more gently. She looked behind Melvin, confused. “Where is Becky?”
“She wouldn’t come in—she said we probably shouldn’t be in the kitchen.”
Lorraine chuckled. Shouldn’t be in the kitchen! Becky and her jokes. “That girl is hilarious.”
“So out with it,” Clara said impatiently. “Marcus? In mortal danger?”
“I know you’re still in love with him,” Lorraine said, hoping to see a crack in Clara’s cool mask.
“I’m over him,” Clara replied. “Completely. Besides, he’s getting married.” She watched Lorraine’s face. “As if you didn’t know! Don’t tell me that you’re trying to destroy him, too? Haven’t you ruined enough lives?”
“No, no!” Lorraine exclaimed. “Becky, the blond girl out there—she’s my roommate at Barnard. I’m enrolled at Barnard now, did you know? It’s a—”
“College, Raine; we all know,” Clara said, rolling her eyes.
“Anyway, Becky says that the woman Marcus is marrying isn’t really who she says she is. She’s little better than a common criminal. A grifter! A cheat! A liar! A …” Lorraine paused and tried to think of more insults.
“Hmm … that sounds an awful lot like you.”
Lorraine waved her hand in the air, then paused to pick up a miniquiche from one of the nearby platters. “The old me, maybe.” She popped the hors d’oeuvre into her mouth. “But that was so a-month-and-a-half ago. I told you, I’ve got new le
aves! ”
“Yes, yes, you’re an absolute tree, Raine,” Clara said with a sigh. “Go on.”
“This girl, she’s bad news. She’s only marrying him for his money! ”
Clara dug through her sequined clutch. She withdrew a cigarette from a silver case. “So what am I supposed to do? Break them up?”
“Yes! Basically. That’s what I would do.”
“Lorraine,” Clara said darkly, “no one does the things you do. Because the things you do are stupid. And selfish. And thoughtless. And mean.”
“No, they’re not! I think about them a lot!”
“Marcus is happy—doesn’t that matter to you at all? Is the happiness of other people so repulsive to you?”
“You’re not listening to me, Clara! This woman is a snake! She’s absolutely reptilian!”
“You listen to me: I am not going to ruin his life. And neither are you. Try being a friend for once.” She turned and stormed toward the kitchen door.
“You think he’s happy?” Lorraine called at Clara’s sparkling back, making her halt. “Who gets engaged five weeks after breaking up with the love of his life? That’s not the act of a happy person, no sirree.”
Clara turned, blinking. Lorraine thought she saw a hint of something in the girl’s eyes—longing, perhaps?
Suddenly, a handsome swell with dark, wavy hair and brilliant green eyes poked his head in. He looked familiar from the Opera House—was he a gangster? No, after a few moments Lorraine remembered that he was Clara’s editor at the Manhattanite … Parker Richards. Not only did Clara have a glamorous job writing for one of the city’s hottest magazines, but she got to stare at this man’s gorgeous mug all day at the office. Some girls had all the luck.
“Clara, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said. “You’re missing a great show out there.”
“Well, you’re missing a pathetic show in here,” Clara replied. She glanced from Parker to Lorraine. “Huh, would you look at that? My two least favorite people in one place. I’ll take that as my cue to leave.” Then she marched back out to the party, nearly mowing Parker over, and the door swung closed behind her.
Lorraine swallowed hard. How was she supposed to help Marcus now? She wanted to have new leaves, she really did. But already her plan had gotten all fouled up, just like all her plans did.
“That didn’t go so well,” Melvin observed. “What did you do to her to make her hate you so much?”
Lorraine bit her bottom lip. It seemed that Clara really did hate her. And deep down, Lorraine couldn’t blame her. She couldn’t blame Gloria, Marcus, her parents, or anyone else. She was a life ruiner, just like Clara had said. There was nothing she could do to fix it.
“Oh, please,” she said, her voice breaking. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Melvin pulled her into his skinny arms, and she felt so pathetic that tears pricked at her eyes. She cried against his tweed jacket while he patted her hair. “There, there, Raine. It’ll be all right.”
As she clung to him, Lorraine realized he smelled really nice. Not of cologne, like the other boys, but of the comforting scent of soap and clean laundry. His arms felt stronger around her than she’d expected. Maybe lifting all those heavy books had given him a bit of muscle.
Lorraine pulled away a little and looked up at him. Melvin wasn’t so unattractive, really. He had a fine, straight nose and a cleft in his chin that she’d never taken the time to notice. He didn’t have too many freckles, just a few—and they were sort of cute. Plus Melvin had always been so nice to her. Unlike Hank, he didn’t have any ulterior motives.
“I wonder what you’d look like without your glasses,” Raine said, her voice light and feathery.
Melvin kept one arm around her and raised the other to take his glasses off.
His eyes immediately crossed, and any hint of romance Lorraine might have felt was whisked away.
“Oh God, put those back on right this instant!” she ordered.
He slid the glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, then put his hands in his pockets and gave her a bashful smile. “Yeah, they really do something for my face.”
Lorraine nodded. “They hide it. But enough of this.” She dragged her fingertips under her eyes to remove any black tracks of mascara and turned toward the door to walk back out to the party. Lorraine had come here to have a good time; she wasn’t going to let Clara Knowles or Melvin and his disconcertingly small eyes keep her from doing just that.
She thought about her sorry life at Barnard and how much it would be improved if Marcus introduced her to his friends, if the other girls saw that she was popular and fun and a good person—whatever that meant. Was it just a silly dream? She didn’t think so. Even the worst sinner could be redeemed, if only she found the right task to prove her worth.
“If Clara won’t help Marcus,” she announced, “I’m going to have to do it myself.”
GLORIA
Gloria loved the Long Island Sound.
Especially when she was looking at it from the deck of a yacht.
The Sabrina, Forrest’s yacht, represented the highest standard of luxury—just like everything else Forrest owned. It was a long, pearly white affair with a shining wooden deck.
Gloria had been walking along the steel railing until she’d stopped to take in the view. To her left, Forrest’s other houseguests were lounging on cushioned chairs on the foredeck. All afternoon the gin had been flowing as freely as Ma Rainey’s voice pouring out of the gramophone on deck.
Forrest appeared next to her at the boat’s railing. He’d abandoned his pale blue seersucker jacket and wore only the matching waistcoat, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie.
“I was wondering where you disappeared to,” he said with one of his entrancing smiles. He offered Gloria a flute of champagne. His fingers grazed hers when she accepted it. “You look like you’re having thoughts far too deep for this little soiree.”
Gloria could hear Glitz’s and Glamour’s raucous laughter wafting from the foredeck. Those girls sure could turn life into a party wherever they went. “Well, your boat gives such a glorious view of the Sound. It seemed a shame not to spend a few minutes looking at it.”
“Mmm, absolutely beautiful,” Forrest agreed. But when Gloria turned to him, he wasn’t looking at the sea. He was looking at her. “It seems you and I are a matching set this evening. Though the color suits you far better.”
Her Babani dress was nearly the same shade of blue as his suit. Gloria ran her finger quickly across Forrest’s cheek. “You’re just not wearing enough rouge.”
He laughed, but he didn’t stop looking at her. Even though Gloria liked joking around with him, she knew what his look meant. He was interested.
But why would he look at her like that? Wasn’t he carrying a torch for Ruby? Besides, she wasn’t interested in him. She had Jerome.
Wherever he was.
Forrest withdrew a tortoiseshell cigar case from his trouser pocket. He opened the case and offered it to Gloria. “We’d practically be twins if you took one of these.”
“Smoke a cigar? That wouldn’t be very ladylike.”
“Well, then, it would suit you. You’re a hell of a lot more fun than a proper lady could ever be.”
Gloria smiled back and accepted a cigar. While Forrest lit it for her, he leaned in far closer than necessary and placed his hand on the small of her back.
She shook off his hand and puffed on the cigar, pointing to the case. If Forrest was going to flirt with her, she might as well use it to her advantage and dig up some dirt. “That’s gorgeous. Must have set you back a pretty penny.”
“Seemed like a good investment, considering how often I smoke these things.”
“Beautiful little yacht you’ve got, too,” Gloria went on, motioning around her. “For such a young man, you’re able to afford quite a number of beautiful things.”
Forrest tilted his head. The late-afternoon sun reflected off his cheeks, making his sk
in look warm, tanner than it already was. “I think the company I keep is much better to look at than anything I could possibly buy.”
But Gloria wasn’t going to let him worm away from her questions again. “Really, Forrest. You know everything about me already. It isn’t fair that I know so little about you.” She paused, inhaling. “How did a fellow like you come into so much dough? I’d love to know so … you know, maybe some of your secrets could rub off on me. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly rolling in it these days.”
Forrest smoked silently for a moment, and Gloria thought they’d hit yet another dead end. In the few days since Forrest’s party, she hadn’t found a spare moment alone to make another attempt at searching his bedroom or any other room in his huge house. There was always a new club in the Hamptons to visit, or a drunken picnic to be had on the Village Green, or Glam and Glitz waking her up at two in the morning for a late-night stroll on the beach. At this rate, she’d never get the information she needed to hold up her end of the bargain with Hank.
But after a waiter collected their empty champagne flutes, Forrest leaned his elbows on the railing beside her. “You’re right, Glo. I’ve become pretty fond of you, you know. You’re smart and brave, and now we all know you’ve got real talent. And here you must think I’m barely more than a stranger. I’m afraid my story’s nowhere near as interesting as yours, though.” He sucked in a breath. “My father … died, and left me a large inheritance.”
Diva Page 9