by Amber Brock
On Friday night, she was relieved when Hen phoned to say that Charles had gone with his father to a lodge party, and Hen was on her own that weekend. Kitty had already decided to go down to the club that night to throw a little hope Andre’s way and get her father off her back. Hen had eagerly agreed to join her. Now Kitty could enjoy the evening with Hen without Charles there to spoil it. Kitty noted with a laugh that Hen asked if Sebastian would be singing that night. Her friend really was a bit infatuated with the handsome Cuban.
Hen arrived late in the evening, unexpectedly detained when Mrs. Bancroft and a friend decided to share the car back from the dinner party they were attending. Kitty spotted the three of them exiting from her spot in the lobby, and her stomach fluttered. She might have hated what Mrs. Bancroft had done to Hen, but she still desperately wanted to impress the society maven. Kitty had schemed for years to get Mrs. Bancroft into one of her father’s properties, so she could see how upscale they really were, but none of the attempts had succeeded. Now Mrs. Bancroft was walking through the front doors. Kitty rushed over.
“How wonderful to see you, Mrs. Bancroft,” Kitty said. “And you, Mrs. Fowler. Are you two joining us for some entertainment this evening? I’d love to give you a tour of the hotel.”
Mrs. Bancroft smiled tightly. “We really haven’t got the time, sorry to say. We’re just popping in to powder our noses. The driver is waiting for us outside.”
“Of course. Right this way.” Kitty led them on the long route to the restrooms, determined to make the most of the unexpected good fortune. The two women went in, and Kitty and Hen waited outside the door.
“We don’t have to wait for her,” Hen said. “She can find her way back out. Come on, let’s go get a table.”
“You go ahead,” Kitty said. “I don’t mind waiting.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Tell Sebastian I said hello,” Kitty teased. Hen lifted her nose and proceeded down the hall to the club without a word.
As Kitty waited, she realized she could entice Mrs. Bancroft to at least look at the ballrooms as a potential space for one of Hen’s wedding celebrations. She opened the restroom door but paused when she heard her own name drift out. As the women touched up their makeup in the anteroom, Kitty could make out most of their conversation. She stood still, careful not to make a sound.
“…it’s so big of you to let Hen carry on with her,” Mrs. Fowler said.
“She’s not the ideal choice, as you know,” Mrs. Bancroft said. “But she is such a little glamour puss. I keep hoping her fashion sense will rub off on Hen. I’m just thankful her father doesn’t seem to have any Red leanings.”
The other woman laughed. “Not with the money he’s making. Tessler’s a capitalist, not like those Rosenbergs. No chance of his daughter filling Hen’s head with all that Commie nonsense.”
“True,” Hen’s mother said. “And at least she’s not a Jew. A lot of those Russians are, you know.”
“So many of them. You couldn’t have that.”
“Besides, once Hen’s married she won’t have time for school friends anymore. We can finally shake her off.” She clicked her tongue. “All his money from nightclubs. And this…place.”
The contemptuous tone burned in Kitty’s ears. She didn’t want to listen anymore. Closing the door as softly as she could, she hurried back out to the lobby. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard disparaging remarks about her family’s origins. At least they hadn’t stooped to calling her “Russki”—or worse—like the kids at Alastair Prep. What really hurt was listening to those women scorn everything that her father had made while they stood in his creation. And she had hoped Hen’s mother would see that even if Kitty’s family tree didn’t recommend her, her years of loyal and loving friendship to Hen should. Apparently, all Hen’s mother saw when she looked at Kitty was a mannequin. A possibly Communist mannequin.
Kitty paused in the hallway near the entrance to the club. She realized that her idea to snare Charles would have the additional bonus of throwing a little misery Mrs. Bancroft’s way. Kitty smiled to think how galling Hen’s mother would find it to attend the wedding of a Remington and the granddaughter of Russian immigrants. She could make sure Mrs. Bancroft got a seat in the front pew. Hell, she’d even provide the monogrammed hankies for Hen’s mother to weep into. Given what she’d forced Hen to do, she deserved all that and more.
When Kitty finally entered the club, she found Hen watching the door with concern.
“I was about to come look for you,” Hen said as they sat in the booth.
“Sorry about that. I got sidetracked.”
Hen waved at the bar area. “Andre’s here. He already stopped by to say hello.”
“Goody.” Kitty pasted on a smile as Andre joined them. She turned and caught a glimpse of Max onstage, and the flare of irritation she was already battling swelled. “They sure are enjoying an extended stay, aren’t they?” she said.
Andre laughed. “They’ve only been here for a few days, Kitty. Did you think your father would bus them all the way up here for a one-night show?”
“Why are they here at all?” Kitty asked.
“Drumming up business for the Miami hotel. We want to remind people that there are still some places in this world where the sun shines.”
“I think I like the regular band better,” Kitty said with a huff.
“Don’t be silly, Kitty.” Hen nudged her. “These guys are really good.”
“I’m with you, Hen,” Andre said. “C’mon, you gotta like them a little. Look how many people are on the floor! That never happens. The house band always plays that slow music. At least Max knows a couple of peppy tunes.”
As if on cue, the band struck up an instrumental version of “Embraceable You.” Kitty raised an eyebrow triumphantly.
Andre threw up his hands and stood. “I’ll get you girls some drinks.”
After he left, Hen wagged a finger at Kitty, her eyes gleeful. “Bad girl. You’re not playing nice.”
“Do you want me to end up with Andre?” Kitty shrugged. “You and my father might be the only ones. Andre doesn’t seem to care at all.”
Hen’s eyes were strangely sad as she watched him at the bar. “Poor Andre. You never know, he really might like you. He’s so nice.”
“Poor Andre like hell. He’s not even working that hard for me. A little odd if he’s as interested as Papa seems to believe, don’t you think?”
“That’s how men are,” Hen said. “You don’t see Charles running to get me drinks, do you? Andre probably thinks you’re a sure thing, since he works for your father and all.”
“If he thinks a girl like me is a sure thing for a guy like him, I’ve got news for him.”
“Who cares what he thinks anyway?” Hen poked Kitty’s arm. “Let me set you up with someone. If you have a steady guy, maybe your father will ease up a little.”
“If you suggest Barry or whatever his name is, I’ll stab you with this fork.” Kitty tapped the silverware on the table with a pink fingernail.
“His name is Harry, and I wasn’t thinking of him. Let’s see…there’s Alfie’s cousin. He’s a lawyer….” Hen counted off wealthy cousins and friends of friends, but the list of names once again turned Kitty’s thoughts to Charles. None of them would suit her ambitions as well as he would, yet another point in favor of taking him for herself. The men Hen suggested were wealthy, sure. Their family names graced a campus building here, a bank there. But Kitty’s new money required that she have the best of those old names if she wanted to legitimize her standing. A name that was printed on street signs and engraved over the entrances to museums. A legacy that went back to the founding fathers. A name that even the boys Hen had in mind spoke in hushed tones. No one else could give her the advantage that a Remington would. The Harrys of the world were dukes and earls. Charles was a prince,
even if his behavior was more that of the frog.
Her resolve began to solidify. She could punish Mrs. Bancroft, destroy Charles, and take her rightful place in the world with one action. The only sticking point was still Hen’s acceptance of the notion. That would likely be an issue of timing. Once Kitty helped Hen find a more honorable partner, she could reveal her intention to make Charles miserable and secure Hen’s blessing. After all, she had never failed to convince Hen of what was best before.
Kitty pulled her attention back to Hen, listening politely to the list of bachelors, then steering the conversation to the much more pleasant topic of winter fashions. Andre occasionally dropped in to offer another round of drinks or to join them for a few moments. He took full advantage of those brief interludes to brag about how much work Kitty’s father entrusted him with. To her, it sounded like Andre was an overworked servant. But she brightened at the reminder that Andre was off to Miami when the band left New York.
“That’s right, Papa mentioned you’re going down there.” She sensed she hadn’t flirted with Andre properly that evening, so she flashed him a smile. “You’re going to come back so tanned. I think it will look swell on you. Don’t you think, Hen?”
Hen blushed, nodding hard, and Andre grinned.
“I’ll probably be inside working too much. But wouldn’t you like to get a little sun? Maybe sit by the pool? You ought to come down with me. Your father said it’s been years since you saw the place. Hen, you’d have to come, too. I’d make sure you both had a good visit.”
Kitty almost blanched at the thought.
“You are just too sweet, Andre. A Miami vacation would be the tops. But I couldn’t have you worrying about entertaining me while you’re working so hard. Some other time.”
“It wouldn’t be a distraction,” Andre said quickly.
“Mmm-hmm. Some other time,” Kitty said.
She was spared from further discussion by Max’s voice in the microphone. “Thanks to all you gents and lovely ladies for a wonderful evening. Once again, we are Max Zillman and the Zillionaires. Lead singer, Sebastian Armenteros.”
Andre started up from the table. “It’s already sign-off. Better make sure everyone’s set for closing.”
Max wrapped up his good nights to the house, and the band began packing up. Reluctant clubgoers took the last watery swigs from their glasses and pulled out wallets to pay.
“What do you want to do now?” Kitty asked.
“We could go upstairs and listen to records. I don’t feel like going to bed yet,” Hen said.
Kitty drummed her fingers on the table. She glanced up at the stage and saw Sebastian chatting with the bass player. The light hit the angles of his face, making him look for all the world like a statue of a Greek god. After the bruising Hen’s mother had given Kitty’s ego, Kitty could stand a little soothing admiration from a good-looking singer. She got up from the table so fast she nearly upset the drinks.
“I want to find out what he’s doing after,” she called over her shoulder. A bewildered Hen leapt to her feet and followed.
Kitty approached the stage with a sway in her hips, but it wasn’t Sebastian who spoke first. It was Max.
“Now I see why your pop is so successful,” he said. “You single-handedly keeping this place afloat?”
She narrowed her eyes and looked past him at Sebastian. “No.”
“No? But you sure do hang here a lot.” He leaned on the microphone stand.
“Mmm.”
“What can we help you with?”
“I’m waiting for Sebastian, that’s all.”
Max leaned back, calling over his shoulder. “Hey, Sebastian. You’ve got an admirer.”
Kitty’s face burned, but she straightened her back. Sebastian walked over with a puzzled smile.
“Hello, good to see you,” he said.
“I was just…I thought I’d ask…what are you doing after?” She had to stop herself from stomping her feet like she used to when she was a little girl and she didn’t get her way. Of all people, that stupid trumpeter shouldn’t make her tongue-tied. She must have looked cool enough to Sebastian, though. He brightened at her question.
“Nothing interesting, I’m sad to say. We’ll probably go back to the boardinghouse.”
“The boardinghouse?” Kitty said. “You aren’t staying in the hotel?”
Max laughed and stepped toward them. “Your dad doesn’t make money by giving things away.” He gestured to Kitty. “Well, maybe giving drinks away to his daughter. But not hotel rooms to his employees.”
Kitty’s jaw clenched. She kept her eyes on Sebastian, ignoring Max’s dig. “It’s too early to go to bed. Why don’t you come upstairs?”
Hen walked up in time to hear Kitty’s offer and grabbed her elbow. “Kitty, may I speak to you?”
Kitty jerked her arm free. “Not right now.” She hadn’t meant to snap, but between Max’s demeanor and Hen’s interruption, her frustration was boiling over.
Sebastian glanced from Kitty to Max. “Ah, better not. We’re practicing early tomorrow morning.”
Hen pulled Kitty out of his earshot. “Thank goodness he said no. What are you thinking, inviting a bunch of musicians upstairs? You know your father isn’t home.”
“I can invite up whoever I want. Don’t you think real musicians would be more fun than some old records?”
“I thought you said you didn’t like their music!” Hen threw her arms in the air, exasperated.
Kitty looked up at the stage. Sebastian and Max were as deep in conversation as the two girls were. “I don’t. But I sure like the way Sebastian looks.”
“I do, too. But, Kitty…” Hen leaned in, her voice hushed with embarrassment. “I mean…he’s as good as colored, isn’t he?”
Kitty paused a moment, caught off guard. “He’s Cuban. Since when do you care?”
“I don’t…not really. But Charles and his parents are very sensitive to that sort of thing. If it got back to them that we were alone with him…” She shook her head. “And Max. I think he might be a Jew.”
“Sharp eye,” Kitty said dryly. “I didn’t invite Max anyway, did I? Look, how are Charles’s parents ever going to hear who was in my apartment?”
Hen crossed her arms. “Sebastian said no. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Sebastian stepped forward. “Excuse me, Kitty?”
She smiled brightly, first at Hen, then at Sebastian. “Yes?”
“On second thought…Max and I are not tired. We would like to come up with you, if that’s all right.”
“Sure. We’ll have a real party.” Kitty hid her dismay that Max seemed to think the invitation extended to him. She needed smooth and charming right now, not flinty and sarcastic.
Hen glowered. “Won’t Andre want to come up? We should wait for him.”
Kitty waved a hand. “He’s so busy.”
“Won’t you at least ask?”
Kitty thought for a moment. “Fine.” She wound her way through the tables, passing the final few patrons as they prepared to leave. Andre stood at the bar, looking over a closing inventory sheet. Kitty glanced back over her shoulder to be sure Hen was watching.
“Sorry to bother you.” Kitty laid a hand on Andre’s arm, and he abandoned the sheet. “I know you have so much to do.”
“Never too busy for you.” He dabbed at his temples with his handkerchief.
“You are a doll. Anyway, Hen and I are pooped. We’re heading upstairs. I hope that’s all right.”
He nodded. “Of course. I hope you had a good evening.”
“Oh, the best,” Kitty said. “A couple of the fellas over there are going to walk us up. They want to see the view. But I thought I ought to check with you.” She lowered her chin. “Don’t want you getting the wrong idea about me.”
A
ndre’s smile took over his face. “No, no. I wouldn’t. And, hey, give those boys a drink, will you? If you’re not too tired for a few minutes of entertaining.”
“Well…” She tilted her head. “Okay. But only as a favor to you.”
“Maybe I should come up later,” he said, looking past her.
“I would love that, I really would. What time will you be done here?”
“Hour and a half, maybe two.”
Kitty sucked in a breath through her teeth. “Ooh, that’s so late.”
“It is,” he said, his tone apologetic. “Tell you what, give those boys a drink, then kick ’em right out so you and Hen can go to bed.”
She squeezed his arm. “Thanks, Andre.”
Hen’s cloudy expression persisted as Kitty crossed the floor to her. “What did he say?”
“He insisted we take the boys up for a drink.”
“Did he really say that?”
“Yes.” Kitty waved at Andre, who waved back and gave her a thumbs-up.
Hen sighed. “Fine. You win.”
Kitty pinched Hen’s arm. “Come on, let’s have some fun.”
When they arrived at the suite upstairs, Kitty poured drinks for the other three. Max and Hen sat on the couch, and he barely thanked her for his cocktail. She guessed other girls might find his dark eyes and full lips appealing. Maybe he thought his looks were substitute enough for good manners, but Kitty disagreed. Or perhaps musicians didn’t feel the need for the same etiquette as polite society. She shrugged him off and smiled as Sebastian joined her at the bar cart on the other side of the living room, clearly only interested in conversation with Kitty.
He gazed out the long window at the buildings that surrounded the hotel. “The buildings in this city are all very tall. Not like Miami.”
“Oh, no?” She handed him a drink.
“I feel like I’ll hurt my neck looking up on the street. But all those buildings block the sun. Miami is much brighter.”