by Barb Hendee
Simone was slightly disappointed. She’d most wanted to rattle Kristina.
The next two months were a whirlwind of new experiences. Pierce said that he adored everything about her, and because of this, she fell deeply in love with him. She loved the feel of his hands on her back, and the minty, smoky sensation of his mouth pressing down on hers. He talked about New York a great deal, and she knew he would marry her and take her away from Denver.
Daddy seemed almost . . . fond of Pierce and invited him to dinner several times a week. Kristina began changing her style of fashion, opting for white or cream dresses, and she always wore a white bow in her hair. Silly cow. At the age of twenty-three, Kristina was in danger of becoming an old maid, and dressing like a pristine schoolgirl wasn’t going to help.
Pierce liked Simone’s bob and her sleeveless, low-waisted dresses and her black eyeliner. Kristina should take a hint.
Then in late August, Pierce began to claim he was busy on many evenings. This hurt Simone a little. She knew he was preparing for his final year, and so she tried not to complain. But when she did see him, he seemed different somehow, more distant, and sometimes, when he looked at her . . . even disapproving.
She told herself she was imagining things. Pierce loved her.
One Saturday night when he was busy, she decided to go out with her girlfriends, but the nightclub held no amusement or glitter for her, so she went home early. Walking into the house, she heard soft voices in the sitting room, and she walked to the archway.
Her legs began to tremble.
Pierce was standing near the fireplace, holding Kristina tightly while she cried on his shoulder.
“It’s all right,” he was saying, over and over. “I’ll tell her tomorrow. It’s nobody’s fault.”
Then he looked over and saw Simone standing in the archway, and his face went white.
“Simone . . . ,” he stammered.
Kristina turned quickly, not wiping away her tears. “Oh, Simone,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me . . . it just . . . happened.”
Simone was numb, but she could see the glint of wild triumph in Kristina’s eye. A part of her wanted to scratch Kristina’s face, and another part wanted to vomit on the carpet. Pierce took a step toward her but stopped when he saw her expression.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
She couldn’t even scream.
She turned and walked away, going upstairs to her bedroom and sinking down onto the bed.
Not long afterward, she heard footsteps in the hall. She went over and opened the door. Kristina was passing by.
“How did you do it?” Simone asked.
Kristina watched her warily for few seconds and then said, “Acting concerned for his future, convincing him you were the wrong sort to be the mother of his children. We met for tea, at the library, that sort of thing.”
Reality hit Simone in the face.
Kristina’s new look had been carefully calculated down to the color of her hair ribbon . . . along with the shy stares at her dinner plate.
“I love him,” Simone whispered, knowing it was a stupid thing to say and that it would only make Kristina’s victory sweeter.
“He’s asked me to marry him,” Kristina answered coldly. “I’m going to be living in a town house in New York next year. I’ll have a better husband than Miranda does, and you get to stay here and try to please Daddy.”
She swept down the hall, into her own room.
Simone walked slowly to her dressing table, sinking down. Kristina had taken Pierce away. Kristina was going to New York. Simone sat for hours staring at herself in the mirror, and then she looked down at a few photos Pug had given her of Seattle. Poor Pug had truly wanted to see Seattle.
Simone looked up at herself again, visualizing the exhausting stretch of dinners with Mother and Daddy. Worse, she pictured next Christmas when Pierce would be home for the holidays and Kristina would be busy planning their wedding. She’d probably ask Simone to be a bridesmaid. Wouldn’t that be lovely?
Almost without thinking, Simone got up and took her suitcase from the closet. She packed everything she could possibly fit inside. She took all the money from her dresser drawer and every piece of jewelry she owned.
Dawn was breaking outside.
She wasn’t staying in this house.
Pug had been right.
Pug was almost always right.
She walked downstairs, phoned a cab, and went outside to wait.
When she got to Union Station, she simply stood in line for a ticket.
“Where to?” the ticket agent asked when she reached the window.
She blinked. Where was she going? Not New York. Not anywhere near New York.
“Seattle,” she said. “One way.”
SEATTLE, 1935
Simone kicked her feet and waved her arms in time with the other girls. She liked dancing onstage at the China Doll Club on First Avenue, even though the place was a dive, but she liked singing better.
Before arriving in Seattle, she hadn’t given much thought to anything so mundane as “a job,” and she didn’t know anything about managing money, so the first few months had been rough. She’d cut all ties with her family—and they had no clue regarding her whereabouts—but she’d finally written to Pug, who wrote back immediately, and to Simone’s simultaneous embarrassment and gratitude, Pug sent ten dollars in cash.
But even in her darkest moments, Simone never considered going home.
Now Simone had a job at a club, mainly working in the acts between performances by the real talent. She shared a shabby apartment with three other girls, and she was learning to take care of herself. All the girls here were self-centered and competitive—they had to be. But this was nothing new to Simone. These girls could take lessons from her sisters.
Besides, she was no different.
But she had to be careful and watch her own back. Most of the girls hated her because not only was she prettier than they were, but she also possessed certain qualities they lacked. Most of them had grown up in some kind of shack eating salt pork for dinner.
Simone knew how to move, how to smile, and how to speak in ways they couldn’t copy. Both her verbal and her body language were deeply ingrained.
She paid a few pennies each month for a little post office box. She wrote to Pug every week, and Pug always wrote back.
Tonight, she smiled, waving her hands in front of her chest and kicking her feet back by bending her knees, dancing gleefully as if it was the most fun in the world.
The audience loved it, and she could feel numerous eyes upon her.
When the dance ended, the crowd applauded from their tables, and Simone knew the drill. She walked off the stage on her long legs, heading out to mingle with the patrons. Prohibition had ended, and she didn’t mind letting a man or two buy her a drink. She could take care of herself.
But as she headed through the dim, smoke-filled room, she saw a woman staring at her.
Not just any woman, but someone . . . exotic. Her age could have been anywhere from twenty to thirty. Her skin was pale, and it glowed softly against dark brown hair that hung in waves down her back. Her eyes were dark and large and slightly slanted.
She wore a black dress and held a glass of red wine.
“You want a drink?” she asked with a French accent.
Simone didn’t trust other women. She didn’t trust men either, but she knew how to play them.
Then she got a better look into the woman’s eyes. They were lonely. Simone could see the scars of loneliness behind the woman’s beautiful face, and the strangest feeling washed over her, a kind of attraction, not the kind she’d felt for Pierce, but to her shock she found herself drawn to this woman.
Cautiously, she sat down.
“You looking for work?” Simone asked. “I probably can’t help, but I can show you the stage manager.”
The woman smiled. “No, I am here to see the show.” Her accent sounded like music, and
her smile seemed genuine. Simone began to relax a little.
“I am Maggie,” the woman said, motioning to the waiter. “What will you drink?”
“Champagne. My name’s Simone.”
She still wasn’t sure what was happening. Women didn’t normally ask her to sit down for a drink.
“I’ve only recently moved here,” Maggie said, “so I have few friends, and tonight I found myself missing my family. I have not seen them in a long time. I came to watch you girls dance.”
“Your family?”
“My sisters. We used to laugh and dance together.”
“You miss your sisters?” Simone asked, incredulous. “I’d gladly drop both mine off a cliff and then wave when they hit the bottom.”
She almost put her hand to her mouth. Had she just said that out loud? Of course she thought such things all the time, but she never said them, not even to Pug.
Maggie laughed. Then she leaned forward, and her dark eyes grew intense. “You are different. You are different from anyone I’ve met here. You’ve known pain, haven’t you? Not hunger or cold or poverty, but the pain of killing yourself every day to please someone else.”
Simone sat stone still. A part of her wanted to cling to this total stranger and pour out the torture she’d endured at home. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t trust another woman.
“Forgive me,” Maggie said.
Simone glanced away. The waiter set down her glass of champagne, and she sipped it.
“Have you been in Seattle long?” Maggie asked, changing the subject.
“Almost two years.”
“And you’ve found a home?”
“In a way. I share a small apartment down the street with three girls.” Simone paused and then said, “It’s awful.”
What was wrong with her? Why did she keep speaking her thoughts?
“I have an extra room in my house,” Maggie said, “and I’m looking for someone to rent it. The house is large, and I sleep much of the day. If you are interested, I can show you.”
The very idea of going home with a foreign woman she had just met would have been unthinkable five minutes before. But for some reason, the thought of sharing an entire house with just Maggie—with no one else hogging the bathroom or stealing her food—seemed so attractive, she almost stood up.
“How much?” she asked, trying to hold on to her good sense.
“Just see the room, and then we can talk.”
Knowing her actions were bordering on madness, Simone nodded. “Wait here, and I’ll get my coat.”
The house far exceeded Simone’s expectations, in a decent neighborhood on Queen Anne Hill.
She couldn’t help feeling delight as they moved from room to room—and she was presented with the prospect of living almost as she had back in Denver.
Maggie did not appear to employ live-in servants, but she said, “I have a maid who comes in twice a week to clean.”
Oh, Simone thought in bliss. A maid.
No more stinky nylon stockings in the rusty kitchen sink.
Maggie must be some kind of heiress or perhaps a divorcée. Simone didn’t think she could ask such questions yet. The thought of living there was so enticing, she didn’t want to hurt her chances.
But suddenly, Maggie said, “You grew up someplace like this, no?”
How could she possibly know that?
“Yes,” Simone found herself answering. “Very much like this.”
Maggie walked down the upstairs hall and opened the door to a bedroom. The curtains were lace, and a thick Indian carpet of cerulean blue covered the floor. There was a large closet, a dresser, and a four-poster bed.
“You like?” Maggie asked.
Simone more than liked the room, but the location of the house presented one problem. “I can’t afford to take a cab to the club every night, and it’s too far to walk.”
Maggie waved her pale hand. “Forget the China Doll. I’ll get you an audition at the Triple Door tomorrow. Then you can afford all the cabs you want.”
“The Triple Door?”
Maggie smiled again.
A week later, Simone was beginning to think her luck had finally turned.
She was in the chorus at the Triple Door theater. It was the hottest place in Seattle. Maggie would take no credit for the stage manager hiring Simone on the spot.
“No, no,” Maggie said. “He only had to see you. That was enough.”
Her first night onstage was glorious, with Maggie in the audience, cheering her on, and afterward, they drank French champagne.
Simone wrote to Pug and told her everything.
The housing situation turned out even better than expected. Maggie wouldn’t take any rent money yet, promising that Simone could catch it up later when she was more established. So Simone used her salary to buy a few new dresses, stockings, and eyeliner.
She and Maggie were normally up all night, so they slept all day.
Some evenings, Maggie didn’t come to watch the show, but Simone didn’t mind. Although she was grateful for Maggie’s kindness, she preferred to trust only in herself, and she was working hard to become a standout member of the Triple Door chorus. The other girls watched her carefully.
One night, after the show had ended, she decided to go back-stage to freshen her lipstick before mingling, when she heard the sound of someone weeping.
She looked around and saw Mabel, one of the other chorus girls, leaving through a back door, sobbing quietly. Another girl, Riana, was also watching Mabel slip away.
“What happened?” Simone asked.
Riana hadn’t heard Simone come in and glanced at her warily. “She got cut from the chorus. She turned twenty-six last month, and the manager says she’s too old.”
“Too old?”
Riana turned away. “She’s lucky. Most get cut when they turn twenty-five. Managers like ’em young. Brings in the men.”
An uncomfortable feeling began growing in Simone’s stomach. “How old are you?”
Riana’s expression flattened. “None of your business! But I ain’t waitin’ around to get thrown out.” She took a step closer. “You know Tim Hale, the carpenter who builds the sets?”
Simone had barely noticed him, but she nodded.
“He’s not married,” Riana said harshly, “and he’s got a little place near the waterfront. So I got my eye on him. You keep your hooks to yourself, understand?”
She stalked off.
Simone just stood there. So Mabel was thrown out, just for turning twenty-six, and Riana’s only plan to save herself from the same fate was to marry a stage carpenter?
Suddenly, Simone didn’t feel like mingling or drinking champagne.
She got a cab and went home.
The house was empty, and she walked up to her bedroom, lighting one small oil lamp and looking in the mirror, wondering whether tiny lines might be forming near her eyes. Was that possible? She was only twenty-two.
She wanted to weep but couldn’t.
Simone never cried.
The sound of the front door opening reached her ears, and then she heard Maggie’s high heels against the floor.
The footsteps stopped, and Maggie called, “Simone? You are home?”
How could Maggie know that?
“Here,” she called.
A moment later, Maggie slipped inside the dim room, illuminated only by the small, glowing oil lamp. She looked a little different tonight. Her dress was common, and her makeup was slightly overdone.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“A girl got fired. She’s a good a dancer and she’s still pretty, but she turned twenty-six.”
Maggie came up behind her. “Oh, my sweet . . . ,” she began. “That is the way of things.”
“What am I going to do in a few years?” Simone turned in her chair. “The other girls can only think to get married. I don’t want to end up washing some man’s coveralls and raising his kids just so I can eat and have a roof over my head.”<
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A flicker of something like pain crossed Maggie’s features. “Of course you don’t. You’re nothing like them, Simone. You are different.”
Maggie always said things like that, but different or not, Simone was going to turn twenty-three . . . and then twenty-four . . . and then twenty-five.
“Come with me,” Maggie said, reaching out and grasping her hand, pulling her toward the door. They went down the hallway to Maggie’s room; only the glow of a streetlamp streaming through the window offered any light.
When Maggie drew her over to the dressing table, her ivory face was glowing with intensity, and she kept on gripping Simone’s hand. Simone looked down and saw Maggie’s antique set of silver brushes and the hand mirror.
“This . . . this is sooner than I planned,” Maggie said, “but you don’t have to age another day.”
Simone tensed, thinking perhaps she had jumped into this friendship and home too quickly and Maggie might be slightly mad.
“No, no,” Maggie said quickly, reaching past the brushes to unlock a small box. “Look at this.”
She held up a miniature portrait of herself, wearing a red gown. The streetlamp illuminated the date at the bottom: 1874.
Simone wanted to back up. Of course it was a fake. Anyone could do that.
“And this.”
Maggie held up a daguerreotype with a clear date stamp of 1901. Her face looked exactly the same as it did now.
Was this real?
Simone looked up in surprise.
Maggie nodded. “It’s true.” She paused, and then she began to whisper. “Our meeting at the club that night was no accident. I saw you weeks before, coming out the back, and I could not forget. You look just like my sister, Amélie, and I am so tired of being alone.”
Simone tensed. Maggie had seen her weeks before their first meeting? Followed her? Watched her?
She knew she should be afraid, but she reached out for the daguerreotype.
“How is this possible?”
“Magic,” Maggie whispered.
“And I could go on looking twenty-two for years and years?”