CHAPTER THIRTY
“Richard! What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Marjorie. I’m happy to see you, too.” Richard stepped forward. “So this must be my competition.” Behind his spectacles, his eyes glittered. The sight was most unsettling; Richard wasn’t the glittering type. He extended a stiff handshake to Peter, giving him the once-over. “Richard Brownlee. Miss Corrigan’s fiancé.”
“Former fiancé,” I corrected.
Peter shook Richard’s hand as calmly as if he’d fully expected to find him standing in my front room. “Peter Bachmann. Marj—er, Miss Corrigan and I work together.”
“Ah, yes, at the department store.” In Richard’s mouth the term “department store” sounded vaguely disreputable.
“Richard, why are you here?” I said. “Is everything all right in Kerryville?”
He wheeled on me. “No, everything is not all right in Kerryville. If everything were all right in Kerryville, would I be here now? Everyone’s talking about how you left me high and dry. Cavendish even pulled me aside to say he hoped my personal troubles wouldn’t affect my work.” He threw up his hands in frustration. “I can’t have personal troubles. I’m Dr. Richard Brownlee!”
His speech sounded oddly disjointed, like the words were too big for his tongue. His eyes shone with an unnatural brightness. He listed slightly to the right and I touched his arm.
“You’re talking nonsense. What’s the matter? Don’t you feel well? Maybe you should sit down.”
He yanked his arm away. “I don’t wanna siddown. I’ve been sitting down all day with whatshername over there.” He waved a thumb toward Dot, whose face still bore a fixed marionette smile. “I expected you home from church hours ago. Where have you been?”
Poor Dot had been forced to entertain Richard all afternoon. No wonder she looked wrung out. “Sorry,” I mouthed silently. She gave a helpless shrug.
“You haven’t answered any of my letters,” Richard said. “The family is concerned and asked me to check on you.”
I doubted very much that “the family” had asked him to check on me and was about to say so when a horrific tremor shook the floor and the walls and rattled the glassware. Richard staggered and nearly toppled over, grabbing the arm of the sofa for support. “What in blazes—”
“The El,” Dot and I shouted in unison.
When the train had rumbled past, Richard regained his balance, cleared his throat, adjusted his tie, and turned back to me.
“Whereja say you were?”
I folded my arms. “I don’t see how that’s—”
“She was with me,” Peter interrupted, square-jawed. He took a step toward Richard.
“That’s obvious, isn’t it.” Richard drew himself up to his full height and then some.
“Stop it, both of you,” I said, stepping between them. “Peter, you don’t have to explain anything to him. I can speak for myself.” I wheeled around. “Richard, you don’t need to know where I’ve been, what I’ve been doing, or with whom.”
The men backed off, glaring at each other. Peter’s concealed revolver was never far from my thoughts. Who knew what would happen if a fight broke out? Visions of tomorrow’s headline flew through my mind. Gangster Shoots Country Doctor.
This man was not the gentle, dignified Richard I knew. His smile had an unfamiliar coldness about it. And if I was not mistaken, his breath carried a whiff of liquor.
“Richard, have you been drinking?”
“Of course not. Never touch the stuff. Although your friend here was kind enough to serve me ginger lemonade on this hot afternoon.” He made a wobbly half-bow toward Dot. “Thank you. It was delissssciouss.” He blinked. “Say, did anybody ever tell you you look just like Louise Brooks?”
Alarm bells rang in my head. “You’ve been drinking Dot’s ginger lemonade? All afternoon?”
Oh, boy. No wonder he was acting strange. He was plastered.
I gaped at Dot, who mumbled something about having letters to write and vanished into her bedroom.
Mortified, I turned to Peter, still standing tall and silent by the door, his jaw set. “Peter, your jacket’s hanging on the hook right there. I’m sorry you had to see this. You can leave. I’ll be all right.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He didn’t take his eyes off Richard.
Wearily I said, “For the last time, Richard, what are you doing here?”
His face broke into a sloppy grin. “I came to take you to the opera.”
“The opera? You hate opera.”
“Yes, I know, but you said you wanted to see the opera, so . . .” With a flourish he produced two tickets from his breast pocket. “Pavilion seats at Ravinia Park. They’re doing—” he glanced at the tickets—“Lamoray duh . . . tray ray,” he sounded out with great violence to the Italian language. “Sounds interesting. Wonder if it’s one of those noisy numbers with sopranos dying of tuberculosis and all that. Of course there was terrible sanitation in those days, and—”
“It’s not,” I broke in. Ravinia Park. Shoot. I’d been longing to go there, the summer home of the Chicago Symphony, located well outside the city. Music under the stars. Shoot and double shoot. “I’m not going to the opera, or anywhere else, with you.”
“Look, you said you wanted me to share your interests.” He waved the tickets in my face. “Here. I’m sharing.”
I sighed. “It’s too late, Richard. It’s over between us.”
He flung the tickets on the end table and reached for his hat. “Then I think it’s best we just go home.”
“Yes, I think you’d better.”
“I said we.”
“We? I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yesshh, you are,” he said. “Get your things.”
“I will not.”
“Come on, Marjorie,” he pleaded. “Your family is worried about you. You don’t want them to worry, do you?”
“If they’re so worried, they can get in touch with me themselves. They don’t need you to act as a go-between.”
He switched to a whiny tone. “But you ignored my letters. That’s not like you. I don’t even know if you’ve gotten them.”
“I’ve gotten them.”
He leaned his face close to mine. “Well, thassa relief. I got to thinking maybe these people were hiding them from you on purpose.”
I wrinkled my nose and swatted him away. “For heaven’s sake. Of course no one’s hiding my mail. Who would do such a thing? But, no, I didn’t answer them. It seems pointless to keep having the same conversation, over and over again. We’re over. Done. You’re free.” I flapped my hands like bird wings.
He clasped a firm hand around my upper arm. “I don’t want to be free. And neither do you, deep in your heart.”
I shook off his grip. “What do you know about my heart? You never listen to me.”
He shook a wobbly finger in my face. “You’re not thinking straight, Marjorie. You’re caught up in a bad situation. These people—they could be dope fiends, for all you know. For your own safety, I’ve come to take you home.”
“Stop calling them ‘these people.’ They’re my friends. And I am home.”
“But—but I forgive you.” He lunged toward me. I dodged out of the way and fended off his clumsy embrace. “Look, Richard. I’m glad that you’ve forgiven me for whatever hurt I’ve caused you. I would like to part on good terms. But continuing to badger me and call me crazy hardly qualify as good terms.”
“Oh, Marjorie. What’s happened to us?” He looked as if he were about to cry. Then his gaze hardened into a glare. “You’ll be ssssorry.”
“You should go.”
I’d nearly forgotten about Peter until he stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on Richard’s shoulder.
“Say, buddy. How about I give you a lift to the station?”
Richard shrugged him off. “I’m d-driving. My car’s downstairs.”
“No, you’re not. I’m gonna take you to a hotel where you can sle
ep it off.”
“Sssleep what off?”
“The headache you’re gonna have real soon. Let’s go.”
Richard removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “Come to think of it, I do feel a bit woozy. Musta picked up some kind of virus at the hospital.”
“That must be it. Come on, big guy.” Peter guided him to the door, then turned back and gave me the thumbs-up. My heart flipped over from the way he looked at me. Such a kind, thoughtful man.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He quirked an eyebrow as he snatched his jacket off the coathook. “Ginger lemonade?”
I felt myself blush. “It’s . . . it’s Dot’s special recipe.”
He tried to look stern but fell short. “We’ll have a chat about that later.”
With tremendous weariness I closed the door behind them.
He probably wanted Dot’s recipe. Heck, he probably wanted her business.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The next day, Peter drew me aside in the employee dining room. His hand on my arm sent an electric charge through my skin, but he merely said, “Look, I’m sorry about what happened yesterday.”
Which part, exactly, was he sorry for? In the cool light of morning, was he having second thoughts? I knew I was. Not that I didn’t feel a powerful attraction to him, but . . .
“It’s none of my business, but I have to say, I think you did the right thing, breaking off your engagement. Richard’s not the right fellow for you.”
No, you’re the right fellow, my heart longed to say. But he wasn’t, and I knew it. What kind of life would I have with Peter? Always on the run, hiding from the law, pretending I didn’t know about his secret double life? He must have known it, too, because he walked away with nothing more intimate than a brotherly squeeze to my shoulder. Not that there was much opportunity to do anything else, in a lunchroom crowded with coworkers eager for a scrap of gossip to fling down the moccasin trail.
In spite of my misgivings, I couldn’t sweep away the memory of his kiss, the feel of his strong arms around me, his lips on mine. I begged God to scrub my brain clean of those thoughts, lest I be lured down the primrose path. But I needn’t have worried. Peter didn’t suggest I join him for lunch, much less any more interesting activities, and I couldn’t conjure up a plausible excuse to casually glide past the Store for Men. At home I drifted around, brooding over my future as a lovelorn spinster, wondering if, at eighty, I’d still be cherishing the memory of my brief but passionate fling with the underworld.
A few nights later, Dot woke me when she returned from the club. “That’s enough of that,” she proclaimed, flicking on the overhead light and bouncing on the end of the bed. “No more moping. Now, who’s your favorite friend in the whole wide world?”
I rubbed my sleep-filled eyes. “Um . . . you?”
“That’s right, doll.” Her smile practically blinded me. “Look what I have.” She waved some bits of cardstock in front of my face.
“Tickets?” I groaned and fell back on my pillow. “Please don’t tell me those are for the opera.”
“Not just any tickets. Look.”
I peered as instructed. “The Aragon Ballroom? Ritzy. Some sort of dance?”
She snatched them back. “They’re only the hardest-to-get invitations to the swankiest party of the year,” she cried. “The studio bigwigs at Balaban and Katz are putting on a huge shindig, and guess who’s going.”
“Who?”
Her dark eyes grew enormous. “You . . . and me . . . and . . . John Gilbert.”
I flung off the covers, all sleepiness forgotten. “John Gilbert? John Gilbert?”
Dot tossed the tickets on the bed and grabbed my hands. “Isn’t that fantastic? He’s coming to town to meet with the studio people, and they’re throwing this bash, and we’re going.”
We squealed and jumped around like schoolgirls until a firm rap-rap-rap came up through the floor—Mrs. Moran banging on her ceiling with a broom handle. When I caught my breath I said, “How on earth did you finagle us an invitation?”
“Don’t thank me, thank Louie,” she said. “Somehow he wedged his way into the deal between the studio and John Gilbert—some sort of favor he did. I don’t really understand it all—but anyway, he got the invitations and we’re going!”
I paused. “Wait a sec—Louie? But I thought you and Louie were on the outs, and that you and Charlie—”
She cut me off. “These tickets are Louie’s way of apologizing for being such a cad lately. Isn’t that the sweetest thing?” She didn’t mention Charlie at all. That should have troubled me, knowing how much Charlie liked her, but in the moment excitement clouded my thinking. Even Cinderella could not have been more thrilled on her way to the ball. I was going to be in the same room with John Gilbert. I might even speak to him. I might even dance with him.
And like Cinderella, my very next thought was I haven’t a thing to wear.
Dot put a red-lacquered finger to her lips. “There’s just one eensy-teensy little catch.”
“What is it? We’ll have to ride in a pumpkin pulled by four white mice?”
She jabbed my arm. “Don’t be a dope. You simply have to allow one of Louie’s friends to escort you.”
My skin prickled. “Oh, Dot. Not a friend of Louie’s.” If I’d wanted to date a gangster, I had one of my own in mind.
“You don’t have to kiss him, silly. You just have to, you know, be nice to him, dance a little, laugh at his jokes. It’s a small price to pay for meeting John Gilbert, don’t you think?”
At lunchtime on Thursday, Dot and I scurried up to the dress department on the sixth floor. We had a mere forty-five minutes to find a gown worthy of John Gilbert and the Aragon Ballroom.
“If you’re going to cavort with movie stars, you can’t stroll in looking like Little Bo Peep,” she said, referring no doubt to my homemade party dress and its makeshift corsage of pilfered daisies.
While I wrestled in and out of gowns in the fitting room, Dot shuttled back and forth to the sales racks like a frantic fairy godmother. “What about this one?” She passed a flashy gold number with a double-dip front and cut-out back over the dressing room door. I pictured my father clutching his chest and passed it back.
“How about this? It’s more covered up.” She handed me a white dotted Swiss with a pink crepe sash.
I wrinkled my nose. “That reminds me of Daisy Calloway’s graduation dress.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Isn’t there something else?”
She passed me an emerald bias-cut gown, something Garbo might wear. I’d stepped out of the cubicle and was scrutinizing the effect in a three-way mirror, cursing my freckles, when a sales clerk stopped and gave me the once-over. “Hmm,” she appraised. “You’ll need a bit stronger girdle with that one, dear.”
Inside I fumed. The nerve.
“Oh, don’t listen to her,” Dot said. “She’s just annoyed because I’m helping you instead of letting her do it. Fretting about her commission, I suppose. But this is serious business. No time to dilly-dally.”
I sucked in my stomach and had to admit, the gown instantly looked ten times better if I avoided breathing. Since an entire evening without oxygen was out of the question, reluctantly I returned it to the hanger.
“Time’s up,” Dot said. Our lunch break was nearly over, with me no closer to looking waltz-worthy for John Gilbert. “Don’t worry. There’s still tomorrow. You’ll find something.”
“It can’t just be ‘something,’” I moaned. “It has to be magnificent.” Magnificent on a salesgirl’s wages—no mean trick.
On our way back down to reality, we treated ourselves to a stroll through the haute-couture salon, where the most exquisite gowns were displayed. Thick, lush carpets silenced our footsteps. Hushed voices crooned flattering words to customers perched on silk-upholstered sofas, watching models glide past in fashions straight from Paris and Milan. No pawing through overstuffed racks here in search of a
bargain. Each garment hung on its own stand, like a precious artifact in a museum. For a few moments we amused ourselves, ogling the dresses and giggling nervously at the price tags.
I should have known better than to wander among the finest dresses when I was feeling vulnerable. Because suddenly there it was.
The Dress.
Deep-blue satin with delicate embroidery on the skirt, swirling fabulously on a slim, golden-haired model in front of a society matron who was far too lumpy to do it justice. In an instant I knew it was the gown for me. With “a bit stronger girdle,” of course.
Dot’s gaze moved from my face to The Dress and back again.
“You could have it, you know,” she whispered, a snake in a chiffon-and-taffeta garden.
I stared at her. “You’re nuts. It’s way out of my league. I can’t possibly afford it, even with my employee discount, not to mention shoes, bag, hosiery . . .”
“You don’t have to buy it, silly.”
“Huh?”
“You could just borrow it.”
“What are you saying?”
She leaned in closer. “Just—you know—borrow it. Buy it, wear it Friday night, return it on Saturday, and get your money back.”
“What?” I blurted. “I can’t do that. That’s—that’s not right.”
“Shhh!” Dot glanced around. “Don’t be such a ninny. Everybody does it. You don’t think I actually buy all those gowns I sing in, do you?”
I recoiled. “No. I won’t do it.”
She shrugged. “Have it your way . . . but you’d look like an angel in it. Come on, we’re late.”
My first instinct was disgust, not wanting to believe that my friend found such a shady practice acceptable. Returning a worn garment, indeed.
And yet.
I couldn’t get The Dress out of my mind. That night as I lay in bed, I imagined how stunning I’d look in that swirl of blue satin. Maybe Dot was right. Maybe this is what everyone did. The sales people probably didn’t even care. They probably even expected it to happen. Just part of doing business. Try before you buy, that sort of thing.
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