Employee? That’s all he has to say? He sees me as an employee who is going to shirk my job until I can go to my new and improved one? Suddenly cold to the core, I wiggle off the desk. “Then that’s what I’ll do,” I say through frozen lips. But I walk extra slowly as I leave his office, waiting for him to call me back. To say, “Gotcha.”
Something.
Apparently, however, he has said everything he plans to say.
Back in my dressing room, I find myself turning in slow circles, trying to figure out what to do next. I was downright visionary earlier this week when I told Clara I need a bigger suitcase. Of course, at the time, I was talking about sometime far, far down the line. I have added greatly to what I owned when I arrived, though.
I walk over to the closet and look at the clothing within, both old and new, but shut the door again rather than start pulling them from their hangers. I wander over to my dressing table and fiddle with my makeup brushes, then pick up the wire cage holding the champagne cork from the standard Henry gave me. I turn it over and over in my hands, before carefully setting the thing back down again. I glance over my shoulder at the bejeweled star attached to the outside of the still open door. This doesn’t make a lick of sense.
I freeze. It doesn’t make sense. Shoving aside my hurt, I consider the reasons why.
Booker punched Will because he thought his one-time best friend might be my lover. After I spent the night at Clara and Dot’s—before I basically moved in during this mess with his mother—he asked me if I was coming home. Not coming to his house; home, he said. And every time after that, as if it’s mine as well as his. So, what is this don’t let the door hit you in the butt beeswax?
The knot in my belly slowly unwinds and I quit feeling so dang cold. Booker thinks he’s giving me my shot at fame and glory—I know he is. As if my career is what I want more than anything else in the world.
Well, the devil with that. I storm from the room, not bothering to close the door behind me. If someone wants to rob me blind, let ‘em. It’s only stuff. Well, if they take my door star or champagne cork, I will eventually go gunning for them. But I can’t be bothered over anything else.
When I arrive at Booker’s office and see he is right where I left him, I stop in the doorway to look him over. But smooth Booker is nowhere to be seen. Instead of busily tearing into tasks with his usual single minded industry, his always squared shoulders are slumped, his elbows are on his desk, with no regard for the papers they’ve knocked out of place, and his hair is standing on end as if he’s been plowing his fingers through it. I can’t see his face because it’s buried in his hands.
Praying to the heavens I’m not fooling myself—that what I think is true isn’t merely an illusion I badly want to be the truth, I step silently into the room.
But I don’t take any particular effort to close the door behind me quietly.
40
Susan Andersen
Yeaaah, I’m thinking maybe I’d better not hold my breath
BOOKER
“Not now, Sarge,” I mutter without bothering to look up. “I want to be alone.”
“Too bad,” says the voice I was just thinking I’d be hearing in my dreams for the rest of my days, and my head snaps up.
Ah, Jesus, Lena’s standing just this side of the closed door. And she’s so damn beautiful. But I stiffen my spine because I don’t think I can dispatch her twice in one night. “What are you doing back here?”
“I have a question you need to answer, then I’ll get out of your hair.”
Yeah, fat lot of good that offer is, when she’s so deep under my skin I’ll never get her out. I don’t have a lick of energy to push myself up in my chair, so I prop my chin on my hands and soak in everything about her while I can. “Shoot.”
“You’re not even going to make me a darn counter offer,” she demands indignantly, “just tell me to pack my bags and go?”
That jerks me upright, infused with new energy. And hope. “What did you have in mind?” I ask coolly. Name it. I’ll give you anything.
“A raise to match Call-me-Chester Moss’s offer. And I want a bigger dressing room than that closet you have me in.”
“Done. What else?”
“Top billing. No matter what new acts you get.”
“It’s yours. And...?”
“Another two gowns for my act.” She actually looks guilty about that one, making me want to throw back my head and laugh out loud.
“I’ll give you three. Is that it?”
Lena hesitates, then lifts her chin. “No. I want your heart.”
Her words are an arrow lodging in said heart, and I can barely breathe through the relief of realizing she apparently feels as deeply for me as I do for her. “Don’t you know that’s already yours, Lena?”
“It is?”
“Hell, yes. It’s always been yours.”
Her faces simply lights up. She crosses the office in a couple ground eating strides, leans forward...and punches me on the arm.
“Hey!” I rub the slight sting. “What the hell was that for?”
“For being such a poop. Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place, instead of showing me the door?”
“Because I’m an idiot.”
She studies her nails in silence for a moment, then looks up. Widens those baby blues at me. “Oh, is this the part where you’re waiting for me to protest you truly aren’t?”
“Yeaaah, I’m thinking maybe I’d better not hold my breath waiting for that to happen.”
“You booted me out of the best job I’ve ever had, out of your life, without blinking. I wanna know why.”
“I saw Moss stop you. Watched while you sat at his table.” I scrub my knuckles atop my left pectoral muscle as the heart beneath hurts all over again in remembered pain. “I recognized him and knew he had the means to give you everything you ever dreamed of.”
“Professionally speaking, he does.” Lena licks her lips. “And it was the berries learning my voice could take me to heights I never truly imagined.” She watches her slender finger outline the corner of my desk. Then she looks up at me. “My dreams have changed, though, Booker. I have loved you since I was seventeen years old. I’ve been mad at you longer than I’ve loved you, but even then? My feelings for you never truly went away. This love is...different than it was when I was a teenager. But that only makes it deeper, richer.”
For one horrified minute, I fear I might actually break down and cry like a girl. I clear my throat of the ball of emotion lodged there. “God, I love you so much, Lena. I thought I was losing you, and I was sick to my soul.” I perk up. “You want me to go with you when you tell Moss you aren’t taking the gig?”
“Oh, I told him already when he made me the offer.”
“What? And you didn’t lead with that?”
She gives me that don’t be an idiot look. “Of course, not. I was looking forward to hearing your negotiations before I let you know you already had me.” She scowls at me. “I didn’t expect to be kicked to the curb.”
I tug her around the desk and pull her down onto my lap. Trace my finger over the little divot between her brows. “I’m sorry, doll. I might have panicked a little—” or, okay, flat-out “—and I didn’t deal with it well. On the bright side, though, I didn’t punch him.”
Her lips curl up despite the way she’s pressing them together to keep me from seeing her amusement. Then in true Lena fashion, she gives up the fight and laughs out loud. “That is an improvement.” She gives me a prim little lopsided smile. “And they say men aren’t trainable.”
“Hell, yeah, we are, and I can prove it. Stick with me, kid. And in forty, fifty years or so, who knows? I’m liable to be downright housebroke.”
Lena kisses me, then pulls back and presses her forehead to mine. My heart damn near explodes when her breath feathers across my lips as she sighs happily. And murmurs, “You have got yourself a deal, Mister.”
Epilogue: 7 Years Later, Part 1
Susan Andersen
I finally understand what family means
LENA
Sunday, March 5, 1933
“God, I love this town.”
I glance at Booker across the end table separating our favorite side by side overstuffed chairs. We’ve been enjoying reading in front of the living room fire, Booker with his paper and me with Alice B Toklas’s autobiography. The big pot of stew simmering on the stove scents the house, and flames dance through the logs in the grate. A piece of fir suddenly pops, throwing up a small shower of sparks as Booker grins at me over the folded down top corner of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. A stack of newspapers in addition to the P-I rests next to his chair.
“I wuv it, too, Papa,” three-year-old Lucy declares from the floor where she’s playing with her Flossie Flirt doll not far from Booker’s feet. Her blonde brows meet briefly over her little button nose. “Why we wuv it, ‘gain?”
“Because Seattle is our home, Baby Girl,” he gently informs his daughter. “And it’s chock-full of good people.” Lucy clearly loses interest before he finishes his explanation and Booker shoots me a wry smile.
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Why do we love it in particular today?”
“I’m just proud to live in a town where businesses help their employees—especially during this bank holiday experiment. Which, incidentally, the papers are all calling a smart move.”
Unlike many states, Washington has had darn few bank closures. But due to the huge number of loan defaults, it struggles with the same diminished cash flow banks are facing nationwide. Governor Martin ordered a state wide, three-day bank closure in solidarity with several other states hell bent on forging ahead without awaiting the new president’s approval. Our old president’s waffling, which made the banking situation even more dire, is still fresh on everyone’s mind.
“The papers have done a good job explaining what the closure really means and are urging patience rather than hysteria. They’re reminding their readers that Seattle banks, especially, have kept themselves in strong condition and have the highest degree of liquidity in the country.” He gives me a cheeky grin. “God knows having a cash business has helped our liquidity situation.”
“Ow licka-diddy saysun,” Lucy whispers to her doll and Booker and I exchange mutually besotted smiles.
We have been so fortunate. Seattle speakeasies are surviving this depression extremely well. Washington has always been a wet state, and in Seattle, jazz is a hot commodity that’s going strong—especially down on Jackson Street. So, the police and city officials for the most part continue to look the other way.
Not for free, of course. But I’m pretty sure the men down in the immense Hooverville encampment would call that a rich man’s problem.
“A lot of businesses are stepping up while their employees can’t access their money,” Booker continues. “Many are paying them in cash, and Boeing Aircraft—”
The doorbell rings and our oldest, five-year-old Jack, thunders down the stairs hollering, “I’ll get it!”
I snag him as he rushes past, swinging him around until I can mold my palms over his skinny little shoulders. “Jack Joseph,” I say sternly, “what have we told you about running and yelling at the top of your voice in the house?”
“Don’t do it,” he says, then flashes me his father’s charming get-out-of-jail-free smile. “Sorry, Mama.”
I tug him in for a quick hug and a kiss, then hold him at arm’s length. “I don’t want to hear your sorries, young man,” I admonish as I set him loose. “I want you to quit doing what we have told you over and over again not to.” I shake my head as he promptly dashes for the door. Give his daddy a look. “That lack of manners didn’t come from my side of the family.”
Booker laughs and surges up from his chair to haul me out of mine, pulling me into a bear hug that lifts me off my feet. “I’ll talk to him again, baby. But I don’t think either of us should hold our breath waiting for my lecture to find fertile ground.” He sets me back on solid footing. “He’s a wild little Indian.”
That’s putting it mildly. Being pregnant with Jack was like hosting one of those Olympic gymnasts we heard so much about last year on the radio and in theater newsreels. And I swear that child hit the ground running the moment I gave birth to him. Unlike Lucy, who’s our snuggle-bug and loves to be read to, Jack is constantly on the move and has no patience for lap cuddles.
“I’m an In-ee-an, too, Papa,” Lucy says, jumping up to tug on his trouser leg.
“Nah.” Booker scoops her up and blows a raspberry on her cheek, closing his eyes briefly when her chubby little arms wrap around his neck. “You’re Papa’s princess.”
“Look, Mama, Papa!” Jack charges back into the living room. “It’s Uncle Will!”
Will strides in on our son’s heels, making Jack laugh uproariously. “Something sure smells good in here,” he says cheerfully and crosses the room to kiss my cheek and shake Booker’s hand. Lucy hops to her feet, demanding “Unca We-o’s” attention and Will bends down to scoop her up. In between talking nonsense to her, he nods at the pile of Sunday papers next to Booker’s chair. “You as impressed as I was when I read Boeing bought three thousand streetcar tokens and arranged credit for gasoline and groceries for their workers? I heard more than sixteen-hundred employees were unable to cash yesterday’s pay checks.”
“I was just telling Lena how much I love this town. Fisher Flour and the local Ford Motor branch cashed their employees checks. Fisher also offered car tokens and credit at certain stores.”
Will nods. “I read that, too. And about the utilities advancing their worker’s enough cash for necessities.” Then he sobers. “I hope to hell the new President can get the men in Hooverville working again.”
“Roosevelt’s New Deal seems geared to putting people to work. That right there is a huge improvement over Hoover’s inactivity. So, here’s hoping. There are too damn many people out of work.”
The doorbell rings again and before I can get up, Jack thunders through the living room once more to answer it. Most of the time I not so secretly enjoy the racket my kids make. Booker and I got married in February of ‘27, and I felt then I finally understood what family—real family—meant. But with the birth of our kids...?
The two of them multiplied the family aspect a thousand-fold for us. So, I let Jack’s inability to walk when he can run or talk quietly when he can yell, slide.
“It’s Auntie Clara,” he shouts, trotting back into the room, hauling Clara behind him with his grip on her wrist. “And she made brownies!”
I will be working on his manners again tomorrow, however.
“Jack, unhand your auntie.” I rise and relieve Clara of the plate she’s balancing with her free hand as Jack’s full-speed-ahead locomotion has her almost doubling the length of her stride to keep up.
Booker quirks both eyebrows at Clara. “The ball and chain still out parking the car?”
Clara relinquishes the dish to me, pries her hand free from Jack’s clutches and grimaces at Booker. “Unfortunately, no. He’s at home icing his shoulder and sipping whiskey to manage the pain of the muscle he pulled trying to put something up in the garage rafters.”
“Trying?” Booker rises to his feet. “You need us to put it up for him?”
“Oh, Booker, would you?” Clara beams at him. “You know how he is—he’s not going to rest until the damn thing is put away. And that means more whiskey, which probably isn’t a great idea.”
Booker transfers his attention to me. “We have time before dinner?”
“Sure.” I shrug. “There’s nothing that can’t be kept hot or refrigerated. If you’re too long, I’ll feed the kids.”
“No,” Jack yells, “I wanna go with papa and Uncle Will.”
“Me go, too!” Lucy dances in place.
“Help your sister with her coat,” Booker says and heads for the foyer to collect his keys. After a noisy couple of minutes, the door slams behind the group of
four.
“Ah, silence,” I say contentedly to Clara as the kids’ chatter fades away. “Come on into the kitchen,” I invite. “I’ll get you a drink and you can keep me company while I make a salad and cut the bread. What do you hear from Dot?”
Clara had to reinvent herself as a solo act a couple of years ago after a Canadian businessman dropped by the lounge for a quick drink and ended up sweeping her sister off her feet. Dot now lives up in British Columbia.
“You know what?” I fetch a couple goblets from the cupboard. “Forget the salad and bread for now. It’s a clear day and the city looks magical when the sun goes down. Grab that bottle of wine over there,” I direct, pointing to it. “Let’s take this out into the backyard and enjoy the view. You can catch me up on all the news from north of the border while we still have the house to ourselves.”
We make ourselves comfortable on the patio, with its view of the city, the Olympics and part of Puget Sound. I pour us each a glass a wine and pass Clara hers. “Here’s to us.” I raise my glass. “Did you ever think our lives would turn out the way they have?”
“I really didn’t. I wasn’t looking to fall in love at all, but I must say—” She shoots me a sly smile “—Dot and I could see the writing on the wall when it came to you and Booker.”
“I feel so lucky, Clara. I have everything I ever dreamed of, and more. Booker. The hooligans. And good friends like you and Dot and Will. How the heck did I get so lucky?”
“Oh, it’s not luck, kiddo—you get what you give. And you’re not just a good wife, mother and friend, you’re the best at all those things.” Clara reaches to give my free hand a squeeze. “So, like I said, sweetie. You get whatcha give.”
Epilogue: 7 Years Later, Part 2
It Had to be You Page 24