Anne made no comment, instead rolling the dress into a neat, tight ball, making space through force of will. Underclothes. Makeup. Toiletries.
“You’ll need your knitting,” Anne mused. “And you’d better take these,” she added, packing Phoebe’s low-heeled chunky walking shoes, a relic from the war.
“No, I’ve got the ballet flats,” Phoebe protested, but Anne latched the case shut. Phoebe huffed, knowing Anne was right. She would need sturdy walking shoes.
She went through her keepsake box, removing her favorite snaps of Mona and Anne. She came to the photo of her first pay for writing.
“Remember this?” she said to Anne.
“Of course. Boy, did we all think you were a heck of a star that day. And we were right.”
Phoebe gulped, and slipped the photos into her handbag. She ran her fingers over the passport and ticket, hidden behind the lining where they would stay till she arrived at the ship.
“I guess I’m about ready,” she said, though it seemed impossible to be ready to leave your life.
Anne held out Phoebe’s coat. “I borrowed fifty bucks and sewed it into the lining. Emergency stash,” she said. She pulled a twenty-dollar bill from Phoebe’s meager funds. “Here, keep this in your bra.”
“Swell, now I’m a runaway and a cliché,” Phoebe grumbled, complying.
She pinned on her hat, secured her silver watch, and slipped on her gloves. In the living room, she turned off the record player—she was done with Ethel Merman for a while. Suitcase in one hand, typewriter in the other, handbag over her shoulder. She took a last look at the pretty room. The hardcover books, the pictures, the records, the good crockery she’d been slowly accumulating. The phone that had been installed with such ceremony.
“I’ll box it up, I’ll keep it all for you,” Anne promised.
“Thank you. But go ahead and sell the phone. Use the money to get yourself something nice.” Phoebe shut the door with a firm click and handed Anne the key.
* * *
• • •
The predawn was overcast. Phoebe lurked in the dark doorway while Anne strolled to the corner to hail a cab. She thought there should be fog and strange shadows, but Perry Street was oppressively normal. The cab pulled up and the driver, already under Anne’s spell, jumped out and hurried both of Phoebe’s bags into the trunk.
A movement at Jimmy’s window caught Phoebe’s eye as she got in the cab. Her throat constricted. What was he doing awake so early? She concentrated on forcing air into her lungs as they drove off.
“Does it look suspicious, you coming with me and having no bags?” Phoebe asked Anne. Anne ignored her. She had her hands full cultivating the driver, flirting with all her might to secure a swift journey where only one passenger would be remembered well enough to comment on.
Phoebe turned around to watch the Village disappear. Just another scene in a movie she might write someday. Or so she told herself.
“Can’t say for sure, cookie,” the driver said, answering a question Phoebe hadn’t heard. “But it sure looks likely.”
Her stomach dropped even before her brain caught up. Anne had persuaded the driver to keep an eye out for the possibility of their being followed. To Phoebe, all the sets of headlights looked the same. Studying the cars behind them, she began to see what the driver saw. The outline of another cab, keeping pace.
Anne leaned farther into the front seat, her cleavage spilling into the driver’s shoulder as she directed him in a series of quick turns so well thought out and executed, it was like being in a Road Runner cartoon. It now looked as if they were headed for Idlewild Airport. The other cab still followed them.
Finally they caught a break. Their cab shot northward through an intersection as a slow-moving truck trundled through westward behind them, giving them enough leeway to make another two turns and lose their pursuer. Phoebe exhaled shakily and glanced at her watch. Her ship was boarding now, and they were farther from Chelsea Piers than when they started.
“Don’t worry, cookie,” the cabbie assured Anne. “I’ll get you there just fine.”
He sped up, swerving up and down side streets, giving the women a tour of city byways they didn’t even know existed. Phoebe panted, willing the bile back down her throat, willing the fear to subside. She forced herself to be angry instead. Other people had gotten away. Why all this effort spent on her? She was no one, she’d done nothing. Who would bother to expend so much money, effort, and energy to keep her here, to force her to testify when she had nothing to say?
“All right, cookie, here we are,” the cabbie cried. To his everlasting credit, he parked illegally and quickly found a cart for Phoebe’s bags. Anne assured Phoebe she’d paid for the journey and the two dashed through the long building to the dock. Through the corner of her eye, Phoebe saw Anne cast the occasional look behind her. She didn’t dare ask what was there.
The dock, the ship, the last few passengers embarking.
“Anne,” Phoebe began, reaching for her friend, not wanting to say goodbye.
“Get the hell out of here!” Anne urged. She wasn’t looking at Phoebe. She saw something else, something Phoebe knew she mustn’t turn to look at. She ran for the ship, handing off her suitcase to a porter as she ripped her ticket and passport from her bag.
“I suppose someone has to be last,” the agent said, hardly glancing at her passport as he stamped it. “Hurry on up, now.”
She hurried. As soon as her feet touched the deck, she turned around. Anne was still there, leaning casually against a lamppost. She faced off against a man, a man hard to recognize at this distance, but Phoebe knew she knew him. She leaned forward, squinting. He looked up, scanning the decks. She’d seen that outline looking up from Mrs. Pocatelli’s garden plenty of times. It was Jimmy. Jimmy! Was he working with the FBI for a few extra dollars, or did he see them leave and decide to chase them for an experience he could turn into a story? Or was he trying to find yet another way to bond with Anne, to catch them, to warn them? Phoebe gulped hard. Was Anne compromised now? There was no way to know, not for days at least. Phoebe wrapped her typewriter in her arms, clutching it like a baby. She understood now why someone might tell the FBI anything they wanted to hear. Paranoia was its own sort of parasite.
But Anne’s head was thrown back in her classic defiance, and Phoebe swore she could hear her tinkling laugh over the engines. Even if she couldn’t, the sound calmed her. She felt herself begin to laugh as well. She threaded her way through an unseen crowd, all the way to the bow. She was doing it. She was getting away. She was an adventuress, a wronged girl on the run. Barbara Stanwyck! Veronica Lake! She could manage it all!
Well of course you can, you idiot, Mona’s voice sounded in her ears, laughing right along with her. Haven’t you always? Now get over there and make me prouder than ever.
CHAPTER SIX
* * *
The Queen Mary’s rules were very clear. Tourist-class passengers were not allowed on the first-class deck. Phoebe, determined to pretend she was living the life she wanted, ignored the rules. After all she’d been through since the day she was fired, slipping onto the restricted deck was laughably easy. The Bonwit dress was for cocktails, not the dinner and dancing hours of this set, but she strolled about with confidence, and the porters and passengers ignored her. Except for the furniture, this deck wasn’t so different from the lower ones. One could see and smell the sea just as clearly.
The smell was familiar, like a childhood memory, even though the only trip to the seaside she remembered was Fourth of July 1945, when the women of the airfield treated themselves to a holiday. The ship’s deck was chilly, but Phoebe felt that hot sand burning her feet, heard the women screaming with laughter, tasting the final victory and peace to come, and with it all their good futures.
Had their parents taken her and Mona to the sea when she was too little to remember? Had some
doctor ordered Mona be taken somewhere bracing, in that brief pocket of time when there was still hope of her becoming a healthy child? It seemed unlikely—Horatio could not have left the newsstand, and it was singular enough to give Mona fodder for dozens of jokes.
I’m never going to see her again, am I? A gasping sob escaped her, and she beat it down quickly, though no other passengers had bothered to brave the sharp wind tonight. Phoebe plunged her hand into her bag for her pad and pen. She wrote A Memory of the Seaside across the top of a fresh page and began to outline a script. A radio play, a bittersweet comedy about women at the end of the war, wondering about the men they loved, about the future, both secure and still as uncertain as ever. And then they happen upon a man, the last spy of the war. Germany’s last hope, perhaps, surrounded by a group of vengeful young women in swimsuits. At which point . . .
Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud moan. She looked up to see a man in a tailcoat lurching past her, weaving his way to the railing. He slammed into it and bent over, heaving and retching into the sea. Phoebe shook her head, wishing Anne and Mona were there to enjoy a good laugh at the excesses of the rich. She could never see the purpose of drinking so much expensive alcohol if that was where it ended up. The man bent over farther, and farther . . . he was falling.
Phoebe didn’t know she could run so fast. She lunged, catching a fistful of bespoke wool that threatened to burst its seams. The weavers and tailors were worth every penny they’d been paid—the coat held firm enough for her to sling an arm around the man’s middle and, despite his being so much larger and deadweight, ease him back onto the deck.
“My goodness!” he cried, sinking to his knees and flinging his arms around her legs. “My goodness gracious!”
“Just common decency, really,” Phoebe muttered, attempting to disentangle herself. She pulled his silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth. “We’ve got to get you some coffee.”
“No, no, no, not just yet, I beg you,” he gasped. He released her legs and wrapped his arms around his own knees, hanging his head between them. “Must . . . give me . . . let me have a moment. Must sit down.”
Phoebe stopped herself from saying he was already sitting. She supposed she should ring for service, get the man proper help. Except that would mean drawing attention to herself. She patted the man’s shoulder. He was shivering, murmuring, “Goodness gracious,” over and over. His accent was British, a countryman of the nation she hoped was going to grant her asylum. This must make them allies of sorts, even if his clothes marked him as a man of immense wealth. He wasn’t going to be the subject of the porters’ derision and gossip, not if she could help it.
She glanced around to make sure there was still no one in sight, then slipped off her shoes, hoisted the Bonwit dress nearly to her thighs, and knelt beside him, slinging his arm over her shoulder. Panting and grunting, and agreeing with the sharp protest of every muscle in her body, she eased him to his feet. Together, they staggered back to the lounge chairs. His head lolled toward hers, and she could smell the brilliantine in his hair, the remnants of aftershave, and even a hint of powder from his armpit. It was a curiously intimate cluster of scents, and it made her feel shy and awkward about her rumpled skirts and stocking feet as she rolled him into a chair and ran back for her shoes. She crammed her cold feet into them as she sat opposite him, poised to jump clear should he be sick again. He was tall, and well built. He had a long, thin face that was mostly handsome, and his hair was so brushed and slicked, even his near tumble into the Atlantic hadn’t put a strand out of place. As the shock faded from his features, he looked almost amused, as though this were already shaping into an anecdote to be told over more drinks.
“What about some ginger ale?” Phoebe suggested. “You need something to settle yourself.”
“A brandy, I should think,” he said. As his voice calmed, it became more commanding, his accent pure lord of the manor, straight out of an Ealing comedy.
“Well I should think you’ve had more than enough liquor for one night,” Phoebe snapped. It was ruder than she intended, but her shoulders hurt, and her feet were clammy.
“Who on earth might you be?” he demanded, eyeing her up and down.
Phoebe put her nose in the air. “I be Phoebe Adler, the woman who just saved your life and is still waiting for a thank-you. You don’t know how lucky you are. That was the setting for quite the perfect little murder. You left the lounge drunk, there was no one else on the deck, one quick little push would have done it. The murderer would be clear on the other side of the ship in moments, and by the time anyone saw you were gone long enough to look for you, there would be no evidence to suggest anything other than an unfortunate accident. Very tricky case—you’d likely never be avenged.”
He gaped at her, surprise, bewilderment, and nervousness intermingled on his face. He looked back at the scene of the crime, then into her twinkling eyes. A slow smile spread over his face. He chuckled and extended his hand.
“Nigel Elliott, and much obliged indeed.”
“You’re welcome.”
He chuckled again and elbowed himself into a more upright position.
“And here I thought I’d have a nice change, not traveling by aeroplane. Glorious things, aeroplanes.”
“They sure are,” Phoebe agreed with reverence.
“You’ve flown, have you?”
“No,” she said, suppressing a sigh. “But I helped build planes during the war.”
“Ah! A Rosie!”
“No, Phoebe.”
He chuckled again. Then he looked at her more closely, seemed to like what he saw, and leaned in confidentially.
“Please don’t think I make a habit of getting roaring drunk and nearly making away with myself. I’d had a rotten evening and a row with my lady.” He spat the word like it was an expletive. “Drinking was the only logical solution.”
“Possibly you’re with the wrong lady?” Phoebe was surprised at herself. She usually managed some restraint with strangers, especially ones so elegant. But there was an intimacy in having just saved someone’s life.
His brows shot up.
“You modern American girls certainly do talk, don’t you? Was it the war that made you so forthright?”
“I’m a New Yorker,” Phoebe explained.
“Of course you are.” He laughed. “And quite correct. A veritable gorgon, my fiancée, right only by rank and breeding. But there, it’s unseemly for me to continue in bachelorhood—neither family nor career will stick it—and she is pleased enough with the trappings of the arrangement to overlook . . . well. One must do one’s duty.”
Phoebe supposed it was the effects of the liquor that made him speak so unguardedly. Or perhaps he felt the same curious closeness she felt toward him. Probably anyone else might have taken all he said at face value—many Americans both mocked and coveted the British class system and claimed to understand its archaic ways. Phoebe, however, understood the world of Greenwich Village, home to reams of homosexuals who lived safely there but cultivated careful personas for the rest of the city. Floyd and Leo, the proprietors of the Coffee Nook, were well-known as a couple, though it wasn’t much discussed. In quiet moments, they’d sat to enjoy coffee with her and Anne and offered tips on, as they put it, “how to weed out the ones looking for beards.” There was nothing effeminate about Nigel, but Phoebe had learned her lessons well. She grimaced sympathetically.
“Family, career, duty, that’s one ugly trifecta you’re up against. And if you tried to bring home your real love, all three would very much rather you drop dead.”
Nigel blinked, his face creased with faint alarm. Then he saw just how much she meant it and the expression changed to pleased surprise. “What a very perspicacious young lady you are! But there, let us move on from love and on to life. Tell me, my dear Miss Adler, what brings you on this particular journey?” He pulled out a s
ilver cigarette case and offered her one. A Sobranie—Phoebe had never smoked anything so posh. She leaned back and crossed her ankles, hoping she looked like a femme fatale.
“I’m a writer,” she said, attempting to sound airy. “But the censorship in America can make Victorians look like libertines. Really stifles the possibilities. So I thought, what the heck, I’ll try my fortunes elsewhere.”
Nigel blew a smoke ring and smiled a lazy, even sexy sort of smile that made her flush, in spite of what she knew of him.
“One of the blacklistees then.”
Phoebe’s back jerked upward of its own accord. “You know about the blacklist?”
“My dear girl!” He roared with laughter. “Everybody knows about it! I daresay crofters in the Outer Hebrides know about it. Even if I didn’t read the papers, I travel to the States quite regularly and find the whole business most fascinating. The general British response is sheer bafflement. And some amusement, of course.”
“Oh, sure, this whole thing is a barrel of laughs,” Phoebe said.
“Now, now, I only meant people find it absurd to carry on like that.” He winked and leaned in conspiratorially. “So! Are you a Communist then?”
Phoebe grinned, knowing she was about to disappoint him. She told him the story of the airfield and the union. He was easy to talk to, and despite his obvious wealth and status, he seemed understanding and genuinely interested. Even concerned.
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