by Ariel Lawhon
Joe looked at Martin Healy and Owney Madden. They were seated together near the fireplace. “Marty, Owney, I’m grateful for your investment in my career. I wouldn’t be here apart from you.”
“To Joe!” shouted Martin after a swig of champagne, and the cheer was repeated around the room.
Owney met Joe’s glance and gave him a single quick nod.
Once Joe made his public acknowledgments, their guests began to collect jackets and purses. Stella couldn’t remember the names of half the people she walked to the door. Fifteen minutes later, the apartment was almost empty. Joe made his way toward the office with William Klein, Owney Madden, and Martin Healy. Stella was about to follow when Ritzi set a hand on her elbow. She stopped short, glanced at her hand and then at her face. Back and forth.
Ritzi didn’t let go. “You don’t want to go in there.”
“Excuse me?” Stella looked around the room for support, but there was only Maria, and she was busy gathering champagne glasses and ashtrays. “This is my home.”
Ritzi gave her arm an amiable tug. “But it’s their party.”
“I—”
“Trust me.” Her smile was genuine, and Stella struggled to dislike her. “They don’t let the women in on business.”
Stella could see the back of Joe’s head through a crack in the door. He’d taken off his dinner jacket and draped it over a chair. His black suspenders were stripes against his shirt. Cigar ends glowed like taillights in the dim room. The others, still clad in suit coats, were shadows against the mahogany bookshelves. Someone pushed the door shut.
“Business?”
Ritzi laughed. It was a charming sound, and Stella realized how much the young woman must have banked on it, among other things, to work her way up the social ladder.
“With those boys, everything is business,” Ritzi said.
The heat rose in Stella’s cheeks. She wanted to hurl accusations at Ritzi, to punish her. But she picked at the truth instead. “So you’re with William Klein?”
Ritzi looked at the office door with an expression that Stella couldn’t decipher. “I’m his date tonight, but I’m not with him.” She lowered her voice and walked back toward the living room. “Truth be told, Billy is an ass.”
Stella followed. “Then why come with him?”
“He works for the most powerful theater association in the city. Girls like me have to get a leg up wherever we can.”
“Sounds like a sorry life.”
“You have no idea.” Ritzi pulled a cigarette holder out of her purse.
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
Stella settled into a chair next to Ritzi as the office door popped open. Joe caught her eye and nodded toward the bedroom.
Ritzi snorted.
“Be right back,” Stella said, and followed Joe to the bedroom. She gave him a frozen glare when he shut the door behind them.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“That girl. Ritzi. She’s not exactly the kind of company you normally keep.”
“You don’t seem to mind keeping her company.” She stuck a finger in his face. “Or bringing her into our home.”
Joe squared his shoulders. Stiffened his mouth. “What have you two been talking about?”
“I didn’t tell her I know, if that’s what you’re worried about. What good would it do? Humiliating the girl like that?” Stella knew Joe well enough not to hold Ritzi at fault for the affair. This was his doing.
The worried grimace on Joe’s face smoothed out. He leaned against the door and grinned. “I’d call this a success,” he said.
“If your goal was to end up in prison, sure.”
“That won’t happen.”
“Twenty thousand dollars, Joe. It’s our life savings. You drained every bit of it. What happens to me when this comes back to incriminate you? When we lose everything?”
“I’ll make ten times that on the court. The salary is great. So are the incentives.”
“Bribes, you mean.”
“That’s what it means to play at this level. It’s a calculated risk.”
“It’s foolish. And criminal. And—”
Joe clapped a hand over her mouth. “We’ve been over this. It’s done. If you don’t like it, you can leave. Then you’ll be a twice-divorced, penniless ex-socialite. See how you enjoy life then. Living in Queens. Working retail. That what you want?”
Stella knocked his hand away and took a deep breath. “I know how to keep up appearances. You taught me that.”
Satisfied with her cooperation, Joe opened the door and started out of the room. He stopped to stare at Maria. In fact, bent over the coffee table, wiping up a puddle of Cuvée Brut from the dark wood finish.
“Who knew?” Joe said, eyes traveling down the dress that used to belong to his wife.
Stella cupped Joe’s cheek in her palm and turned his face toward hers. “They are waiting for you in the office.”
Joe shrugged away from her touch and returned to the meeting while she stood, hands balled into angry fists. Maria’s face was flushed red; clearly she was not as oblivious to the attention as she’d appeared. Ritzi shifted uncomfortably at one of the tables overlooking the church garden, smoking her cigarette in silence as they waited for Joe to finish his business.
Ritzi and Maria jumped when Stella’s seething voice broke the silence. Her eyes bored a hole into the office door. “I wish he were dead.”
“So do I,” the others answered in unison, their voices little more than a whisper. They startled. Looked at one another.
“Why do we let him get away with it?” Stella asked, giving each of them a pointed look.
“It’s just the way things are,” Ritzi answered.
There was fire in Stella’s eyes. “It doesn’t have to be.”
Maria could not hide the fear in her words. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve heard Joe talk about your husband. I know what he’s threatened you with. He wasn’t bluffing.”
Maria dropped to the couch.
Stella turned to Ritzi. “Joe is a lousy lover. And he’s using you. How long are you willing to fake it for him?”
“You know?” Horror flashed across her face.
“Do you really want to know the conversations he has with his friends about you? The things I’ve overheard?”
“No.” Ritzi gulped. “I don’t.”
“We could end this misery,” Stella said. “We could do it together.”
The air stilled as the three women regarded one another, drew closer.
“It’s wrong.” Maria rubbed her neck, searching for her rosary. She glanced between them, conflicted. Guilty.
Ritzi smiled, calculating. “We would never get away with it.”
“Perhaps,” Stella said, “the reason we would get away with it is because no one expects women to do such a thing.”
While Joseph Crater plotted his political takeover with a handful of the most corrupt men in New York City, the three women in his life began to whisper fifteen feet away.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
SHELBY, IOWA, SATURDAY, AUGUST 15, 1931
“WHAT kind of name is Vivian, anyway?” Charlie asked, resting against the doorframe.
Ritzi filled the tin cup with water and poured it over the baby’s soft brown hair. Ringlets had begun to curl over her ears and at the base of her neck, and Ritzi toyed with them as she lay her down in the shallow tub.
“A pretty one.”
“She looks like you.” He was a bit closer now, standing over her shoulder.
“Yes.”
“I’m glad.” Charlie knelt next to Ritzi on the floor and rested his arms on the edge of the tub. “I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Neither did I.”
She could feel the heat of his gaze on the side of her face. The nape of her neck. The rise of her breasts. Ritzi wanted to bury her face in his chest. She wanted to touch hi
s cheek. Instead, they both looked at the baby, their forearms brushing lightly. If she moved her pinkie an inch to the left, she could wrap it around Charlie’s. She didn’t.
Charlie reached into the tub with his other hand and set one finger in Vivian’s chubby fist. She curled her fingers around it and tugged. From the corner of her eye, Ritzi could see the dimples flash on Charlie’s face.
“She needs a middle name,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about Jane. After my mother.”
Ritzi cleared her throat, and emotion filled her voice. “I didn’t know you wanted a say.”
“Sarah,” he said, voice tender. “I hate the bastard who did this to you. But she’s your baby, and I could never hate her.” He pulled his finger from her tiny grasp and set it against her little rosebud lips. “I think Vivian Jane Martin is a good name.”
Charlie handed Ritzi a towel and left the bathroom.
Once Vivian was clean and dry and diapered, Ritzi lay her in the middle of the bed to kick her feet in the air. She stood next to the open window and looked out at the fields. The corn was ready for harvest, and in the darkness it looked like a black wave rolling from the house in all directions. A breeze gathered the long, rough leaves and rubbed them together. When she closed her eyes, it sounded like summer rain. The sky was clear and the stars bright, and Ritzi was overwhelmed with the simplicity and beauty of that evening. She hadn’t seen the stars one time in New York City. Before shutting the window, she leaned out a bit and inhaled the scent of grass and wind. The earthy fragrance of geraniums drifted up from the porch below.
Ritzi slipped out of her shoes and pulled her dress over her head. She didn’t notice Charlie in the doorway watching until she saw his reflection in the window. She could see his eyes trail down the curve of her back, the roundness of her bottom beneath her slip. He swallowed. She hoped he would come into the room. That he would talk to her. Touch her. But when he caught her eyes in the reflection, he turned and walked away. Ritzi flipped out the light and curled around the tiny form of her daughter. She lay in the bed wide awake.
The hall was dark, and she heard Charlie’s familiar steps heading toward the linen closet. He grabbed a blanket, like he’d done every night since she’d come home, then picked his way down the stairs to the living room. His feet shuffled across the hardwood floor. In her mind, she could see him sitting on the edge of the couch and taking off his boots, the left one first and then the right. He would unbutton his shirt, fold it, and set it on the chair. Same with his pants. Socks laid neatly on top of the pile. Ritzi imagined him standing in the living room, moonlight grazing his face and chest, and longing crept through her.
The couch groaned beneath his weight in the room below. He fussed with his blanket and pillow. Slowly the house grew quiet, only the faint creaking of wind and the settling of old plaster walls.
Vivian whimpered in the bed beside her, and Ritzi laid a hand on her stomach, feeling the rise and fall of her breath. Then she sang a few lines from her favorite Gershwin song, soft and low, so as not to disturb Charlie: “I never had the least notion that I could fall with such emotion … ’cause I’ve got a crush, my baby, on you.”
At the sound of her mother’s voice, Vivian grew still, and her breathing evened. She stuck one fist in her mouth and sucked. The little smacking sound of her lips made Ritzi smile, and she closed her eyes as well. An owl hooted outside, and together mother and baby drifted off to sleep to the lullaby of cornstalks rustling in the wind.
Some time later Ritzi woke when the blanket lifted from her. And then the weight of Charlie on the mattress. She looked up at him in the moonlight. His eyes were dark and shone like obsidian, and the shadows chiseled the lines of his face. Without a word, he slid next to her, and the heat of his skin against hers quickened her pulse. He smelled of leather and soap and fresh air, and she could feel the stubble of his chin rest against her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she said. It sounded like a gasp, full of apology and grief.
Charlie tucked his legs in behind hers and reached over to play with one of Vivian’s curls. His lips brushed against her ear and he traced callused fingertips up her arm. Gooseflesh rose at his touch and she took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of his desire. “I’m glad you came home,” he said.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
ORCHARD STREET, LOWER EAST SIDE, THURSDAY, AUGUST 20, 1931
MARIA listened to the sound of Jude’s key in the lock. She lay on the couch, afghan spread across her legs, and waited to see the look on his face. He stopped in the doorway, breath balled in his throat. The apartment was transformed, awash in candlelight and floating in the sounds of Haydn’s Third Symphony. It had taken them months to save up for the record player, but the splurge seemed reasonable, given the circumstances. The soft scratch of the needle traveling through the groove added texture and depth to the music. A faint blush of orange light painted the upper half of their living room window as the sun set behind the skyline.
“Welcome home.” She smiled.
“Nowhere I’d rather be.” Jude crossed the room and kissed her forehead. He joined her on the couch. “I got a really interesting cold case today.”
She raised her eyebrows in question.
“Apparently, a New York State Supreme Court judge disappeared a year ago, and no one ever found out what happened to him.” He cupped her face in his palms, kissed her deeply. It felt like the brush of apology against her lips. “So now I’ve got all the time in the world to make it right. I promised I would.”
“I know.” A flash of worry crossed her face. Every time Joseph Crater came up in conversation, she grew anxious.
Jude tucked her into the tender circle of his arm. “I have something for you.” He pulled a small box from his pocket and set it in her palm. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a shoelace.
Maria glanced at his feet. One of his shoes had sacrificed a lace. She touched her smile with two fingers as her eyes glassed over with tears.
“Open it.”
Jude tensed around her, eager, but Maria took her time, slowly unraveling the crude bow and peeling the paper off one edge at a time. She gasped when she lifted the lid. Inside, resting on a soft bed of cotton, lay her rosary. The silver chain was repaired, all fifty-nine glass beads were set back in place, and the crucifix dangled at the bottom, newly polished. He held it up for her inspection.
Maria ran a tentative finger across the chain. “It’s even more beautiful than I remembered.”
“Finn helped. I wasn’t exactly sure how it all went.” Jude placed it around her neck. He pressed his forehead to hers. “Forgive me?”
“Ages ago.”
Jude stretched out on his side and drew her to him, her spine against his stomach. In the background, the symphony played on, dipping and curling around the silence. Her breathing slowed, softened, as their bodies melted together. She fought the sleep that tugged at her eyes, wanting to savor this. It happened often lately, a sudden exhaustion that swept her away from the moment, only to release her hours later to find that a chunk of time was gone—a blank spot in an increasingly precious number of days.
When she’d finally shared Dr. Godfrey’s diagnosis with Jude, they had both wept, arms thrown around one another, knotted together in grief. Her lengthy battle with infertility was explained by two excruciating words: ovarian cancer. The life they’d always hoped for was replaced by an urgent need to soak up every minute they had left. All talk of cancer and dishonesty was abandoned. They allowed no room in their conversation for words acquainted with heartbreak. They spoke only of love and faith and hope. Of each other.
Haydn wound to a close, the record player humming, and was replaced by the symphony of New York. Cars and people and the never-ending rattle of the El. Their neighbors fought in Polish, indiscernible words drifting through the poorly insulated walls. Someone paced in the apartment above them, a cane tapping against the floor. Jude patted her back in rhythm. Pulled her closer. Breathed in the
scent of her soap. She felt his lips smile against the nape of her neck. And she knew that she would rather have this than a baby. She would rather have Jude.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
FINANCIAL DISTRICT, MANHATTAN, MONDAY, AUGUST 24, 1931
STELLA reported for work at eight. Unable to justify the cab fare, she’d taken the subway, and she was still unsettled as she walked through the intricately detailed lobby of the Transportation Building. One of the newer skyscrapers in Lower Manhattan, it had a masonry exterior with a charming stepped-back form. But it was the capped copper roof in the shape of a pyramid that set the building apart from its neighbors. It was lovely, and Stella was grateful to be there, as opposed to a retail store. Or, God forbid, the garment district. Her mother had objected, of course, had said she was too good for the job, that she should hold out for something more dignified. But Stella brushed aside the comment, noting that beggars couldn’t be choosers. She had brought this on herself, after all. So she stood tall, lifted her chin, and resumed the role of working woman for the first time in fourteen years.
“Name?” the receptionist asked when Stella approached the sprawling counter in the lobby.
“Stella,” she said.
The woman stared at her with an insolent expression, waiting for elaboration.
“Stella Clark,” she added. “I’m one of the new switchboard operators.”
She slid a long fingernail down a clipboard until she found Stella’s name, then tapped it as if to say, Here you are. She jutted the clipboard toward Stella. “Sign in.”
Stella scratched her name on the paper with a pen that was almost out of ink, then stepped around the desk and walked toward the elevator.
“Where do you think you’re going? The switchboard is in the basement.”
Stella pointed toward the ceiling. “I interviewed up there.”