He’s wrong. I can admit it to myself.
I just can’t admit it to him.
“I’m not going to do it, Leo. I may not be very selective in the men I take to bed, but at least I select them.”
“Not anymore you don’t,” he says with conviction. “But I’ll give you a day or two to adjust to the idea. Tomorrow, I’ll take you on a picnic. We’ll play a little backseat bingo but I’ll have you back home at a respectable hour and kiss your hand at the end of the night as if you were a well-bred lady.”
At this, my nostrils flare. “And that’s all?”
“So suspicious …” he says, as if taking umbrage. “I like spending time with you.”
“That’s what men say when they want to convince a girl to let them ruin her.”
“True. I definitely want to ruin you.”
I cross my arms over myself. “Then do it. Right now.”
“Not until you agree to all my terms.” When I don’t say anything, he laughs. “You’re actually sore at me.”
“Maybe I am. And I haven’t agreed to anything. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if you’re worth the wait.”
He taps my nose like I’m a naughty child. “Don’t give me that adorable pout, Clara. I promise you, I’m worth the wait.”
Leo drives my car with perfect confidence, and watching him work the steering wheel puts me under some kind of spell. He won’t put the top up, even though the wind has my hair dancing like a dervish under the blue sky. Leo puts one arm around my shoulders when we hit the open road, and gives me a sidelong glance. “They say a picnic is a splendid tonic for frayed nerves.”
My nerves aren’t just frayed. They’re snipped in a thousand places and my temper is foul. “Says who?”
“Those etiquette books. You know the ones. They spell out correct behavior for every situation.”
I scowl. “I’ve never had any use for those books, and you don’t follow any rules but your own.”
He glances over at me, reading my irritation. “Clara, can we call a truce? It’s a beautiful day and I’m with a beautiful girl. I’d like to enjoy them both.”
“I don’t believe in truces,” I sniff.
“Even the Germans believe in truces. Be reasonable. I’m waving the white flag here.”
Somehow I doubt he’s ever surrendered in his whole life, but I can’t resist his charm. Thermos bottles and lunch baskets in the backseat rattle louder the faster that he drives. And he drives like a demon, leaving a cloud of dust in our wake. I wait until he looks over at me to see if I’m scared, and give him a sly smirk. “Can’t you go any faster than that, Ace?”
He grins, putting both hands on the wheel. “You’d better hold on for the ride.”
We speed up the country roads, racing any car we pass by. I hold on to his waist, squeezing close at every tight turn. My kerchief goes flying and I’m too giddy to care. He makes the tires squeal and I tingle with the thrill of it. We’re daredevils, him and me, and I’m suddenly glad to remember it. I think I never want him to stop driving, that I could spend forever right here next to him, shrieking with laughter until my sides hurt.
When he finds the ocean overlook, he slams the brakes, sending a spray of gravel into the air. We clamor out of the car and race up the hill. I’m faster than he is. “What’s the matter, Leo? Not so easy when you don’t have a motor to do the work for you?”
Hampered by the baskets, blankets, and Thermos, he shouts, “You left me holding the bag!”
With those long legs of his, he’s on my heels, but I’m fleet-footed and sure. I’m going to beat him to the summit and he knows it. I look back just in time to see him drop everything and lunge for me. He catches my ankle and we both go tumbling down into the grass.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, laughing. “Aren’t we going to eat lunch, Leo?”
“Just a little bite first,” he says, nuzzling under my chin and opening the ties of my sundress. My pale breasts come spilling out, nipples glowing pink in the sun, and he nips at them until they’re taut and rigid, stopping only to admire his handiwork. “Your breasts are a work of art, Clara. They could make a grown man cry.”
“That’s not anywhere near the top of my list of things I like to make grown men do …”
He drags his head up from my bosom. “I’d like to know what is at the top of that list.”
“I’m not inclined to tell you. I’ve already revealed too much and I haven’t even seen you with your shirt off. It isn’t fair.”
“Well, let it not be said that I tolerate injustice.” He reaches to unfasten his shirt at the starched collar. Just watching him undo the buttons mesmerizes me. Then he pulls his shirt over his head, revealing a lean, muscular torso and I’m devastated.
My hands go to my mouth. “Oh, no …”
Leo squints. “That wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for.”
I cover my eyes. But then I can’t resist peeking between my fingers at the lines of his strong shoulders gleaming in the sun. “Oh, noooooo.”
Looking down at himself, Leo rubs the dusting of dark hair on his well-hewn chest. “It can’t be that bad.”
“It’s horrible,” I say, reaching out to thrust his shirt at him. “Put this back on!”
Leo practically stammers. “Uh … well … you really want me to put my shirt back on?”
“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”
It’s gratifying to see him off balance for a change, but I’m not cruel enough to keep up the ruse. “I need you to put your shirt back on because if you don’t, I’m going to throw you down, claw the rest of the clothes off your body, and eat you alive!”
He barks with sudden laughter. “I can handle you, Clara …”
“Don’t be too sure of yourself, Ace.”
Grinning, he pulls his shirt back on. “You had me worried that you preferred chubby, balding tycoons.”
“You leave Teddy Morgan alone.”
“You know, Clara, I can’t decide if I’m charmed or offended by your loyalty to him.”
“You’re charmed. Anything else wouldn’t be worthy of you.”
“Well, I’m glad to see that your opinion of me is starting to improve. Unfortunately, I’m about to irritate you by insisting that you fasten your dress so that we can eat lunch like civilized picnickers.”
The only thing that gratifies me is how much he seems to regret the sight of my breasts disappearing back into my dress. “You just want to drive me into a fever of frustration, don’t you?”
“That’s not anywhere near the top of my list of things I want to do to you. Believe me, Clara, the self-denial is wearing thin on me, too. But tomorrow I’m going to give you everything you want and more.”
To acknowledge it would be to consent to all his terms. So I don’t reply until he hands me a cream cheese and olive sandwich. I survey the hillside and say, “This would be the perfect location to shoot a film.”
He leers. “What kind of film did you have in mind?”
“Not that kind.”
I tell him about my projects—the ones I’ve been producing myself with younger actresses and actors who are looking for a break. He rolls onto his side, eating while he listens, stopping to ask a question now and again. “And these will all be talkies?”
I hug my knees against my chest, wiggling my bare toes in the grass. “I hate talkies. They’re so stiff and limiting. But you can’t buck progress. You saw The Jazz Singer, didn’t you? It’s going to be the standard. My big eyes and exaggerated peek-a-boo gestures … they’ll look silly.”
“You’ll always have that trademark pout.”
I give him one of my best.
“Very nice … I think that’ll translate just fine.”
“I dunno, Leo. In talking pictures an actress has to rely on her voice to do the job her whole body used to. I’m not sure my voice is up to the task.”
He sits up. “I like your voice. In particular, I like the sounds you make when—
”
“Don’t start,” I warn him.
“I’m teasing, Clara. Truthfully, I’m awfully impressed at the way you’re thinking ahead.”
“Nobody else is gonna do it for me,” I say, though this treads too close to matters that fall under our truce. “It isn’t just planning, though. I’ve always wanted to make movies. You saw the photos in my room. I’ve got a good eye. I think I could be brilliant if someone gave me the chance.”
He crumples the paper wrapper of his sandwich, then reaches for another one. “What kind of film would you make?”
“Something no one would ever expect from me. Something serious and innovative and a little bit dangerous. Something that has meaning to somebody beyond the day they bought the ticket.”
He stares at me for a long time. “You’re quite a package, Clara Cartwright.”
“That’s just a stage name, you know.” I’m not sure why I tell him, but once I do, it seems easier to tell him the rest. “It’s Clara Flannagan, actually. My people are from Brooklyn.”
“Never been there,” he says, chewing. “What’s it like?”
“Noisy. Crowded. Cold in the winter …” I don’t want to tell him about the nights I spent huddled under a wool blanket with my mother, shivering so hard that I couldn’t sleep. “Hotter than hell in the summertime.”
“What did you do for fun?” he wonders.
“What’s with all the questions, Ace? Is this an interview and nobody told me?”
He gives me a long and lazy smile. “I like to inspect my equipment thoroughly …”
“The way you compare me to machines is starting to rub me the wrong way.”
“Don’t worry. I plan to rub you the right way.” He props himself up on one elbow to stare at me. At the sight of his easy masculinity, hair tousled by the wind, something inside my chest squeezes. He’s a beautiful man and I mean to have him, but I know I can’t keep him. And I can’t seem to shut him up, either. “Come on, Clara. Tell me what you did for fun in Brooklyn.”
“I sucked off men under the boardwalk for a nickel apiece.”
He snorts. “Did you?”
Hugging my knees tighter, I look straight at him. “What if I did? What would you say?”
He doesn’t look away. “I’d say you didn’t charge enough.”
“Be serious.”
“I am. Having sampled your talents, I know that no man could ever pay you what you’re worth.”
Turning from him, I glare into the bright sun. “So, you’re saying you wouldn’t care.”
He sobers, then sits up so that our knees are touching. “What do you want me to say, Clara? Do you want me to be angry or aroused? Because the former would damn me in my own eyes and I worry that the latter would damn me in yours.”
That catches me by surprise. The idea that Leo would worry about anything, much less how I judged him. He’s always exuded a strong confidence in his sexual desires. I’ve been embarrassed by the things I want to do for him; is it possible he feels vulnerable because he wants me to do them? The idea of hurting him is so awful that I tell the truth. “I’m sorry. I never did that under the boardwalk. I did plenty of other things but not that.”
“Why did you want me to think that you did?”
“I don’t know,” I say, but that isn’t true.
He’s getting into me too deep. He’s seeing more of me than I ever let anyone see.
“Is it a fantasy?”
“No.”
“Then you’re looking for the escape hatch,” he says, his stare unblinking. “But you can’t shake me, Clara. I have you in my sights. Go on. Try to shock me. Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done—something that doesn’t involve another person walking away supremely satisfied.”
He makes me feel so foolish all of a sudden, that I can’t do anything but bite my lower lip.
“Did you cheat on your tests at school?”
“No.”
“Did you lie to anyone?”
A blush creeps onto my cheeks. “Whenever the truth seemed too dull.”
He chuckles. “Did you steal anything?”
My cheeks get hotter and he seems to know that he’s hit upon something that genuinely shames me.
“What did you steal, Clara?”
“Other women’s husbands … well, I’ve just borrowed them, really.” I try to make light of it because it pains me. I’ve always steered clear of married men. The few I have taken to bed were special cases like Teddy Morgan, whose wife isn’t lucid enough to care what he does. But the thought that I might have hurt some poor woman haunts me.
Leo knows it’s not something to joke about. “Do you think you’ll do it again?”
“No,” I reply, suddenly sure of it. “No, I won’t ever.”
“What else have you stolen, other than hearts?”
I squirm in discomfort at the memory. “When I was ten years old, I pinched a sparkly silver hatpin from a shop. I thought I could pawn it for bread money, but then I couldn’t part with it. It was too pretty and shiny.”
“What a little magpie you are,” he says, dragging me over his knees and giving me a slap on the rump. He has me half turned in his lap so that he can see my face, but my bottom is still in easy reach of his warm palm, which he slowly rubs in a circle. And now I’m squirming with more than just discomfort. “What else did you steal, Clara?”
“Cotton candy. My mother called it ‘fairy floss.’ We couldn’t afford it, of course. When she took me to Coney Island she only had enough for hot dogs. But when I saw that sweet spun sugar displayed in a rainbow of colors, it seemed like magic. Then the devil got into me. I grabbed a pink one as big as my head and ran!”
Leo throws his head back and roars with laughter. “Did you get away?”
“I did. I ran like the wind, stopping only to shove little sticky bits into my mouth. It was so sweet it made my teeth hurt, and I loved it. I still love it. I could eat it until it makes me sick.”
“Bad girl,” he says, giving me a harder spank. As the sting of it spreads across my bottom, we both stop laughing. I look up at him, and he looks down at me, and something magnetic passes between us. I wonder if he’s going to bend his head and press his mouth to mine. Instead, he says, “I’d have liked to see you then …”
“No you wouldn’t. I was skinny as a rail. Built like a boy. Nobody wanted to kiss me.”
“I don’t believe that for one second.”
“Well, when they tried, I had a mean right hook and I licked ’em good every chance I got. When they came after me, they couldn’t catch me. I ran track in school and even won a shiny trophy or two.”
“Then I shouldn’t feel too badly that you almost beat me racing up this hill.”
“I did beat you, Ace. Least, I woulda beat you if you didn’t cheat and tackle me.”
He flashes me a pearly white smile. “Was that against the rules? You need to remember what you said before. I don’t follow anybody’s rules but my own … which makes me the perfect partner for you.”
Though the grass feels wonderful on my feet, I sit up to look for my shoes because he sounds like he’s working up to a conversation I don’t want to have. “Who says I need a partner?”
“You need one for the movies you want to produce, don’t you? Unless you plan to finance them yourself.”
Now he has my full attention. “That’s bad business. No smart filmmaker takes on all the financial risk.”
“What if I give you the money to produce a picture about American aviation? In honor of all the pilots who didn’t get to come home to a hero’s welcome. A film about the friends I lost.”
I throw my hair over my shoulder and look at his face to see if he’s on the level. To be able to produce a film like that … why, that’d be a dream. And even though he’s dangling it before me like a sparkling trinket, I’m smart enough to be wary. “I dunno, Leo. You’d have to tell me those stories. The ones you don’t like to talk about. You’d have to tell me all the details so
we could shape a film out of it. What makes you so sure you could even do it?”
“I’m not sure I can do it, but if you were the one listening, I’d try. I want to make a fitting memorial … I just never thought about putting it on film before today. Hearing you talk about the kind of movies you want to make got me thinking … so what do you say?”
The weight of his proposition settles over me and my confidence wavers. “I’ve only made small films before. Nothing for the public. Why would you trust something like that to me?”
He takes my hand, lacing my fingers with his. “You gave me your movie. Seems right that I should trust you with mine.”
I don’t think we’re talking about films anymore and I’m struck with a pain in my heart so sharp I can’t bear it. I want him. More than that, I want to take his face in my hands and kiss his mouth, his cheeks, his eyelids. I want to kiss him so hard that I forget who I am.
And the urge scares me worse than waking up to a blade against my throat.
“Looks like rain,” I say, lifting my eyes to the sky.
He reaches for my cheek, brushing it with his hand, but when he can’t make me look at him, he says, “Alright, Clara. We’ll go back.”
He puts the top up on the way home because it does rain. It’s a long drive and I drowse in the seat next to him, lulled by the pitter-patter. He insists on walking me in, holding his coat over me to shield me from the rain. When we get inside, he goes up with me to the front door. I lean back, pushing wet tendrils of hair out of my eyes. “Why don’t you come in?”
“You know I want to, but I can’t,” he says, lifting my hand to his lips and kissing it.
Just then, the door opens from the inside.
Leo has to catch me before I stumble back. We both turn to see Pops standing there, gray hair all askew, an umbrella in one hand. My father clears his throat, darting a quick glance at me, then at Leo. “I was just on my way out. Don’t let me interrupt …”
Leo should step aside, but instead, he leaps into the breach, extending a hand to my father. “Mr. Flannagan, I presume? I’m Leo Vanderberg. Your daughter and I had a splendid picnic this afternoon and I was just seeing her home for the night.”
It Stings So Sweet Page 14