“Okay.” But glimpsing the position of the hands on his watch, I make a sound of disappointment. “Ohhh! I can’t. I need to get ready.”
He glances at his timepiece as well. “I guess you do. How about we have a drink after your final set and discuss it then?”
My practical side says no. The less time I spend in Booker’s company the better. And yet...a poster. On an easel. Featuring me, as if I’m some big star like Blossom Seeley or Bessie Smith! In a brand new, tailored specifically for my body gown. “Okay.”
“Good. Meet me at my table after your last set.”
A few hours later, as I make my way to Booker’s table at the corner of the dance floor, I find myself half nervous, half excited. To my surprise, several people stop me as I weave through the packed tables. This is not my usual after-set experience. And it is one I’m not quite certain how to handle, since ordinarily I head straight to my dressing room to change into street clothes after my last set. I do my best, however, and eventually make it to Booker’s table slightly breathless, but a survivor of my first tiny brush with fame.
Pushing aside a folder on the tabletop in front of him, he rises to his feet and holds the chair he vacated for me to take. I murmur a thank you as we navigate the sit, but not quite until he pushes in the chair dance I always find so awkward. The seat is warm from his body heat, however, and in the oddest way comforting.
Booker, of course, is cool as a cucumber as he negligently raises a finger to summon Millie and pulls out the chair on the left side of the table for himself. He sits, then turns his attention back to me, sliding a comprehensive glance over my face and what he can see of my upper body. After taking his sweet time about it, he treats me to a downright wolfish smile.
What the heck is he up to? Whatever it is, it’s working.
Because, just like that, my vague irritation with him turns into something more heated. Something far more dangerous to my peace of mind. Good Lord. It has been years and years—nine, to be precise—since I have experienced this delicious feeling deep between my legs in the company of a man. Crossing them, I squeeze my upper thighs together in an attempt to dispel it.
Without noticeable success, unfortunately. “You didn’t have to give me your chair. I know this is your regular seat.”
He shrugs a tuxedo clad shoulder. “It will give you a better view of the stage.”
Tearing my gaze away from the one he’s pinned on mine, I look out at the floor in front of us, which is rapidly filling with dancers.
“I see you garnered some admirers on your way across the room,” he says beneath the sound of the band playing a foxtrot.
Dancers circle the floor and I pull my fascinated glance away from the grace and style of one couple in particular. It is not easy, though, because my gosh! They could give Fred and Adele Astaire a run for their money! Warning myself to stay on track, I replay Booker’s comment in my head. Admirers. Stopping me to talk.
“I did,” I finally say. “I don’t know how well I handled the attention, though, since being recognized by someone who isn’t the usual half-drunk barfly is sort of new to me. I do know I was a bit clumsy at freeing myself from some of the conversations.”
“Just thank them for the compliment and sign an autograph if one’s requested, on whatever they thrust your way.” He sits straighter. “Unless it’s my good linens. If anyone offers one of the napkins for an autograph, do me a favor and tell them you don’t feel comfortable ruining the club’s linens.”
I choke on a little laugh, but have a feeling he’s only half kidding.
“Then move on,” Booker continues. “You have no obligation to become entangled in a series of rambling conversations.”
“Easier said than done,” I mutter.
“Here’s a tip for you. Keep your objective in sight—it helps move you past people without allowing them to catch your eye.”
“Except tonight several people called me by name.” Or at least the stage name I’d chosen. I’m still a little unnerved and a lot delighted by it. I try to not to let either emotion show on my face. “It’s kinda hard to ignore.”
“It is more difficult, yes. Sometimes you don’t have the time or inclination to stop, though. If that’s the case, give them a nod and your best smile, but keep moving toward your objective.” Suddenly Booker grins. “Which in this case was me.” He stabs the folder with the tip of one long finger and drags it between us. “I worked up a rough draft of what I’d like to see on your poster.”
I sit taller in eager anticipation, but Millie arrives at the table before I can reach for the binder. “Hello, I’m Millie, your waitress,” she says, shooting me a cheeky smile. “What may I get the lady and gentleman this evening?”
Booker raises his eyebrows at me and I order a Mary Pickford as if it’s an everyday event.
“Good choice, doll.” Millie turns to Booker. “Would you like your usual, Mr. Jameson?”
“Yes. Thanks, Millie.”
She gives him a wink, then sashays off.
He turns to me. “Why am I not surprised you like your drinks sweet.” It’s not a question and if his crooked smile is anything to go by, he’s quite amused by me.
I shrug and answer honestly. “I’m not wild about the taste of most booze. The pineapple and maraschino cherry juice helps disguise it. Plus, I have a sweet tooth, so I just plain like it.” Having given up any embarrassment over my lack of palate a long time ago, I reach for the folder. “I’m dying to see what you came up with,” I admit and flip it open.
“I’m far from an artist, so it’s rough,” Booker warns as he hitches his chair closer to the corner of the table nearest my seat and leans in. He moves the paper so it mostly faces me, but is slightly angled to give him a not entirely sideways view, as well. “The finished product will be twenty-four by thirty-six inches. I thought we’d do the background in a deep red and use the same bright gold lettering that spells out the name of the lounge on the awning. Maybe use the color in a border as well. Then it’s pretty much as I described it earlier. Lola Baker across the top here in large lettering, then your headshot placed at a slight angle, with the tagline beneath that.”
“Expect the unexpected,” I murmur. And smile hugely as the ramification of what Booker is doing here fills me. Will has supported me from the moment I decided this was what I wanted to do with my life. But as much as he believes in my talent, he doesn’t truly understand how the variables in this business can make or break a singer’s chance of success.
Booker knows. He also clearly cares about the bottom line. So, if he’s willing to bestow these perks on me: the dresses, the poster, I have to believe he thinks I’m going places.
Lord above, how I’ve searched for this exact vala...valad—someone to tell me he believes the same thing I do. For years, I have longed for an assurance I am dead right to follow the little voice in my head whispering this is not a pipe dream I’m chasing. That I am not wasting my time on something that is long on wishful thinking and short on reality.
And Booker just handed it to me on a silver platter. No one can take the excitement of this moment away from me.
Millie brings our drinks as the dancers vacate the floor, and I watch from the corner of my eye to see what kind of a tipper Booker is. As someone who has cocktailed while waiting to get hired as a singer, I’m pleased to note he’s a generous one. Then Henry leans into the mic to announce the Brasher Sisters and I clap in delight as they dance out onto the stage.
While I have seen them dance dozens of times by now, it has always been from the wings. Never have I watched their performance as a part of the audience. This whole sitting at a premier table with the club owner, sipping a fabulous, fancy cocktail while watching the entertainment the way a paying guest would do is even better. And so much fun.
Heck, who am I kidding? Fun is far too pale a word. Sitting here like one of the swells is utterly marvelous!
I have been mesmerized by Dot and Clara’s talent from my very fi
rst night here. I didn’t think I could possibly find it even more enthralling, yet seeing them now from almost center stage I find I do.
Their second dance is a hysterical routine where Clara acts as if she can’t master the steps Dot shows her, and I laugh uproariously. When they finish with a flourish of amazing footwork, I clap and clap until my hands bloom with heat. Smiling hugely, I turn to Booker as Henry launches the band into a soft rendition of The Original Memphis Five’s Henpecked Blues. “Aren’t they just the most talented women you have ever met?” I sigh happily. “You were so smart to hire them.”
He studies me with an expression I can’t quite make out. “They are definitely brimming with talent,” he agrees.
I feel amazingly comfortable with him for the first time since the old days in Walla Walla. Planting my elbow on the table, I prop my chin in my hand. “Whatever made you decide to open a club like this? It suits you—but it is definitely not anything I ever heard you mention back when I knew you.”
A faint shadow crosses his eyes, but perhaps it’s my imagination, for he flashes me an easy smile and says, “I worked in a couple of clubs in Paris, made my way into management, then eventually had the opportunity to buy the last club I managed. When I decided to come home I was lucky to sell it for a high enough price not to have to ask my father’s help in opening this one. The old man has made no bones about how he feels when it comes to my speakeasy.”
“Ah, well,” I say. “It’s good to earn stuff for yourself, anyway.”
His eyes light up. “Yes! It is.” He reaches across the table and picks up my hand, his thumb lightly rubbing the tips of my fingers.
I feel the effects down to my toes, for pity’s sake, and have to concentrate like crazy when he continues, “It means so much more than having it handed to you.”
Then his gaze drops to my mouth and I watch his eyelids go heavy. He leans into me.
Oh, my God! Is he going to kiss me? In front of all these people, including those I work with?
I push to my feet and nearly trip over them trying to step away from the table. “Thank you so much for the drink and showing me what you’re going to do with my poster,” I say breathlessly. “I think it’s going to be the most darb thing ever. I really have to run, though.” Without another word, I whirl on my shoe’s kitten heel, then try like the dickens to saunter away nonchalantly.
It shouldn’t be so difficult to do. All I should really want is to run away as fast as I possibly can. Instead I feel a huge, shameful, yet nearly overriding, desire to throw myself into Booker’s arms.
What the devil is the matter with me? Have I not learned a damn thing?
13
susan andersen
She has breasts. Work with them.
BOOKER
“Goodness, gracious, Agnes. What are you doing here?”
I set aside the folder full of paperwork I’ve been trying to work my way through while perched on this uncomfortable as hell, fussy little chair. A snooty Frederick and Nelson saleslady installed me in it maybe ten minutes ago, then left me to it when I requested privacy to work.
Does it compare with my office? No, not by a long shot. But the well-designed alcove outside the ladies’ dressing rooms is workable for the short haul. It’s fairly roomy and almost private. At this moment that equates to me, a table almost too small to qualify for the title, another ornate little chair and a large triptych of full-length cheval mirrors. And while the lighting is designed to flatter women, and consequently is not as bright as it could be, it’s getting the job done.
Watching Lena approach, I’m sidetracked for a moment by that lush body in motion. Tearing my gaze away sooner than I like from the jiggle of her breasts and swivel of her hips, I check out her expression.
She doesn’t look real happy to see me.
Well, too bad. I rise to my feet. Answer her question. “Exactly what it looks like. Approving the gowns you selected and overseeing their tailoring.”
“I don’t need supervision to buy a few gowns!”
“And yet it’s my money paying for them. My club we’re outfitting you for. Haven’t you figured out by now I have my fingers in every damn aspect of The Twilight Room?”
Lena makes a face at me, but quicker than I would have given her credit for, she smooths the irritation from her expression. In a voice lacking the slightest hint of preaching, she merely says mildly, “You swear too much.”
“One ‘damn’ is hardly excessive.”
I swear I can hear the sigh she doesn’t sigh. But once more her tone is even when she says, “I’m talking about the overall collection I’ve heard since my employment began.” She raises delicate eyebrows at me. “Don’t forget in order to get almost anywhere from my dressing room, I have to pass your office.”
I scrub a hand over my face and nod. “In that case, you may have a point. The US Army is proficient at teaching a guy an impressive range of swear words.”
She blows out a pffft that is amazingly skeptical for such a brief, breathy non-word. “Please. Don’t you go blaming Uncle Sam for your unfortunate vocabulary. You forget I was there when you and Will swore your way from one end of Walla Walla to the other. And that, Mister, was long before you joined the Army.”
Her pithy observation startles a big belly laugh out of me. I give her a nod once I regain control. “Okay, you’ve got me there.”
Before I can take the step in Lena’s direction my impulses are urging, a different woman from the one who brought me back here trundles a rack into the alcove. More than five dresses hang from its top bar, I notice. In addition, stacks of boxes in various shapes and sizes cover the bottom shelf. She drapes a cloth measuring tape around her neck and turns to us.
“Good day, Mr. Jameson,” she says, looking at me before turning to Lena. “And you must be Miss Baker. Thank you for choosing Frederick and Nelson for your wardrobe needs. My name is Alice. I will be your floor lady and seamstress this afternoon.” She gestures toward the chairs. “Please. Make yourselves comfortable.”
I motion for Lena to sit, then pick up the folder from my own seat and settle in with it balanced on my lap.
Alice unclips pince-nez glasses from a brooch designed to hold the armless spectacles when they aren’t being worn and pinches them in place. “Allow me to first show you the gowns Miss Baker has chosen.” Meeting my gaze, she waves a languid hand at the rack. “As you can see, I brought a few extras in case her choices aren’t precisely what you had in mind. I understand Miss Baker is a singer in your lounge?”
“She is. You should drop by the Twilight Room some night to hear her. She’s amazing.”
Lena gives me a pleased smile, but for all the attention the saleswoman pays my invitation as she rattles through the padded hangers, I may as well not have spoken. She selects a navy gown scattered with gold and silver stars of various sizes that appear to be sewn on, then beaded. The theme carries out in additional clusters of tiny beads that show like constellations against a midnight sky.
Alice opens the closest dressing room door and hangs the gown on a hook inside. She returns to the rack and rummages through the stacks until she locates the box she seeks. She hands it to Lena. “Here you go, Miss Baker. This bandeau binder will make the gown hang correctly—and is more comfortable than binding yourself with bandages.”
“Oh, hell no.” I jerk upright in my stupid little chair, knocking the already forgotten folder on my lap onto the floor. Papers spill out and strew in a dozen different directions. When Alice starts to stoop to pick up the ones at her feet, I wave her off. “I will not see Lena strapped down until she looks like a boy. She has breasts. Work with them.”
Blinking, the tailor turns to Lena. “I thought your name was Lola.”
“Lola is my stage name.” Lena gives Alice a little smile and an even smaller shrug. “I used it to hold the dresses, since they’re for work. My real name is Lena.”
“I like it. It’s even prettier than Lola,” Alice says, for the firs
t time sounding halfway human. I had forgotten that about Lena, how proficient she was at charming uptight people into loosening their grip on the stick up their rears. “Did you wear a binder to try this on?”
Lena nods. “The saleswoman insisted.”
Alice turns back to me. “Then I am not at all certain this size will work.”
I manage to say calmly, “If it doesn’t, find her one that will and tailor what’s necessary to make it fit.” It takes effort to swallow my impatience, but Jesus. It’s not like I’m asking the woman to figure out how radio waves cause voices to emerge from her Atwater Kent.
Alice does that sigh thing women have perfected over the years to let a fellow know he’s an idiot. But she gives Lena a deferential smile, which also looks genuinely friendly. “This way, Miss. I have you set up in Room One.”
When they disappear into the room, I pick up the scattered papers, restore them in their proper order to my folder and go back to work. I sign a contract with the new glassware vendor Sarge found down on Rainier Avenue. Kusak’s Cut Glass Works has been supplying stemware to Frederick and Nelson for twelve years.
“And, hey, if it’s good enough for Frederick’s,” I murmur, then chuckle. Because, talk about stating the obvious.
Seeing as how I’m sitting in the middle of the damn store, prepared to drop a bundle on gowns for my singer.
The real reason, however, is that we’ve already bought an order from Kusak’s on a trial basis and both Sarge and I were very impressed.
I’ve dashed off a quick check from my personal checkbook to my favorite charity and am in the midst of pouring over recipes for some of the recent cocktails gaining in popularity when Lena comes out of the room again.
Glancing up, I freeze. Then, without looking, I set my folder on the tiny table, and don’t even blink when it promptly falls on floor, once again scattering my papers. “Now, that is what I’m talking about,” I murmur.
It Had to be You Page 9