The Secret Life of Anna Blanc

by Jennifer Kincheloe

  He whispered in her ear. “You were charming with the mayor. Your father should thank you. I thank you. And you look beautiful.”

  His appreciation warmed Anna. She murmured. “You're too kind.”

  He pulled back a little and looked at her shoulders. “But, I wonder. Could your gown be missing a piece?”

  Something inside Anna collapsed. Her night was crumbling from every direction. Her voice fell flat. “You don't like it.”

  “Don't mistake me. I love it. But, I don't like the police chief's son gawking at your décolletage. He's been staring at you all night.”

  Anna glanced over at Joe, who was indeed watching her. “Who cares about him?”

  Edgar's affect hardened. “You can't imagine what goes on in the minds of some men. I can't stand him ogling you. Every time I look over, he's staring. He doesn't even try to hide it.”

  Anna blinked. “Fine.” She dropped her arms and stepped back. “I'll change.” She swept off through the pink sea with her lower lip trembling in frustration. When she reached an empty corridor she ran. Her footsteps echoed off the marble walls.

  From the conservatory, a staircase spiraled up to the second floor to her bedroom. She tapped up the iron stairs, flew into her bedroom, and tore off the low-cut, specially made, two-years-ahead-of-fashion gown. She heard a rip and didn't care. She would never be allowed to wear it again. Edgar was a prude—a jealous one. And he was important to her father's bank. And he might find out she worked at the station. She wiped a tear, smearing the walnut stain. Her fate seemed to balance precariously on the whims of a young police officer with a penchant for staring, whiskey, and whores.

  She rifled through the dresses in her wardrobe and settled on a beige cotton gown with stays up the neck and sleeves to the wrist. She examined herself in the mirror. The bodice was loose, the color unflattering. Edgar should be delighted. No one would look at her now. She washed her face in the basin and fixed the smear under her eyes.

  Downstairs in the conservatory someone began tinkering with the baby grand, tapping middle C. Tapping it again. Silence fell, followed by a scale and a discordant bang that exploded into a sizzling rag. The music moved so fast she couldn't listen. She could only feel it. Anna had heard this kind of music only one time before, being played from the back of a truck on the Venice Beach Midway. It was salty music, derelict, her east winds in musical form.

  She left her room at the top of the stairs, forgetting her gloves, and leaned down over the banister. Joe Singer was part sitting, part standing, part dancing at the bench of her baby grand. His lips were moving and he radiated something that she coveted—unrepentant joy.

  He didn't deserve to be so happy or to play so incredibly well, but there it was. God's injustice. He clearly had followed her for some evil reason and stumbled on the piano. She summoned the courage to face her enemy and descended the stairs, graceful and with her chin held high. “Officer Singer. Are you here to vomit on my piano?”

  “Actually, Miss Blanc, I was asked to protect you.” He stopped playing and looked at her critically. “I liked the other dress better.”

  Anna tossed her head. “I know. That's why I changed.”

  He laughed. “Oh, don't mind me. I get paid to look at you. It's nothing personal.”

  He began to play again, a slower song that Anna found ominous. She waited for him to try to strike some wicked bargain—his silence for a thousand dollars, her resignation from the LAPD, her firstborn son.

  He spoke over the music. “Congratulations.”

  Anna's lips tightened. “You're supposed to congratulate the groom, not the bride. It's an insult.” This was especially true in her case.

  “Should I congratulate the groom? Or should I warn him that his future wife's a liar?”

  “I suppose you want money, Officer Singer. Well, I haven't got any. Do you like my piano? I know you do. You can have it.”

  He laughed. His fingers rippled across the ivory keys in one long caress. “You can't buy me, Miss Blanc.”

  Anna fingered the ruffle on her gown, and searched for something to say. Finally, she made a little sound of disgust and flounced down the hall. Joe got up and sauntered after her.

  When Anna arrived at the ballroom, Edgar met her at the entrance. “Where's the police chief's son? He isn't in the ballroom.”

  “How should I know?” Anna said, and sashayed quickly away from the door.

  Edgar kept pace. “You shouldn't have left the ballroom alone.” He glanced suspiciously back at the door. Joe sauntered in, following Anna. Edgar moved between them and met Joe with a strained smile. His voice was tight. “Officer, I'm afraid this lady is taken.”

  Joe seemed as relaxed as Edgar was tense. The corners of his mouth moved up. “Mr. Wright. I'm glad you're here. There's something I should tell you.”

  Edgar folded his arms, glaring. “And what is that, Officer Singer?”

  Anna knew her ruin was at hand. Her eyes popped like sunflowers, her knees went weak, and, for the first time, she thought she might swoon in earnest.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Wright.” Joe said and slapped him on the back. “Anna, shall I have the honor?”

  Joe held out his arm and, before Edgar could close his gaping mouth, Anna took it, and Joe swooped her onto the dance floor. His bare, calloused hand took her soft, bare hand, and she regretted the loss of her gloves. She had expected Joe to trample her toes, as he was a barbarian in disguise, but he danced well enough and his breath was sweet. She frowned hard. “You have some nerve addressing me by my first name, and you're not on my card.”

  “I'm not even a guest.” Joe grinned and twirled her.

  Edgar tapped Joe on the shoulder, his eyes narrowed, his mouth stretched into a thin line. “I'm cutting in.”

  “You're not on her card.” Joe said, pulling Anna closer and turning sideways so he stood between Edgar and Anna.

  Edgar put a heavy hand on Joe's shoulder and squeezed like a vise. “Get away from my fiancée.”

  Joe shrugged him off. “Hey!”

  Edgar muscled up to Joe until they were close enough to waltz, with Anna half sandwiched in between. Anna laughed, her voice stretched unnaturally high and tight. “Darling, please don't cause a scene.”

  She summoned the courage to tilt her head up and look Joe in the eyes, but his attention had already drifted elsewhere. All she saw was the underside of his cleanly shaven jaw. He stood on tiptoes, squinting and craning his neck to see something over Edgar's shoulder. “Excuse me,” he said absently, and dropped his arm from around Anna's waist. In a blink, he was gone, disappearing among the dancers.

  Anna's head snapped toward Edgar. His eyes were angry slits. He gripped her arm, cutting off circulation, and steered her off the dance floor into a lonely corner by the window. “Why did you dance with him?”

  Anna threw her arms up in her best imitation of innocent bewilderment. “Father put him on my card.”

  “Well, I'm taking him off! What's wrong with him?”

  “Who? Father or Officer Singer?”

  “Both!”

  “Well, Father's a greedy, tyrannical idiot. And Officer Singer…he's a boor, but he's only watching me because Father asked him to protect me. If you humor him, he'll go away.”

  Edgar's brows dipped into a deep, sharp V. “Protect you? From what?”

  “Someone engraved my name into our lawn. It was just a prank. The gardener's already fixed it. It's stupid, really, but I've been staying at the Breedloves’ all week.”

  Edgar's jaw constricted. “Who did it?”

  Immediately behind them, a head hit the window with a bang. Edgar and Anna started. Joe Singer had Douglas Doogan's face squished up against the outside of the glass. Anna could see his nose hairs. “I'm not sure.” She stuck her head out the adjacent window and looked at Joe with disgust. “Must you bloody him at my party?”

  “Oh, I'm not going to hurt him,” Joe said. “I know this fellow. He likes it.”

  He h
eaved the little, kicking man over his shoulder and strode off toward a police wagon parked in the drive.

  Edgar pounded his fist on the windowsill. “This is insane! Why didn't you tell me?”

  “Darling, I haven't seen you.” She gave him a weak smile. “Don't let it concern you. Both of them are gone.”

  Mr. Blanc directed Anna to sleep in her own bed that night, as Douglas Doogan had been apprehended. But she slept very little. Every sheep she tried to count appeared wearing a bonnet and the ominous face of Officer Singer. In all her dreams she was naked in some public place, and in all her dreams he was there, pointing it out and laughing in the same scornful way he had laughed at her because she had smiled her most beguiling smile for him before she knew who he was. She crossed her fingers and wished that Officer Singer would be shanghaied in the night and would wake up on a boat to China. In case Saint Michael, patron saint of policemen, had overheard, she reluctantly wished that Officer Singer liked rice.

  Anna should find out what Joe Singer did like. Maybe he already had a grand piano. Maybe he had a different desire. If she could find out what it was, she'd have another stab at bribing him before he squealed and ruined her life.

  Anna emerged from a changing tent at Venice Beach wishing lack of sleep and too much champagne were beauty treatments instead of just the opposite. She felt like a sea anemone that had been poked with a sharp stick. She had spent the entire night thinking about Officer Singer and the threat he posed to her. The beast would probably ruin her just for fun.

  A long line had formed outside the changing tent, and Edgar's head already bobbed in the ocean. He waved and started for shore. Anna picked her way past piles of kelp down to the water. Ropes stretched out into the waves for ladies to cling to while standing in the sea. Women were clustered on the ropes like migrating Monarch butterflies on eucalyptus trees. Anna was too well bred to fight for a spot. She waded out into the cold brine anyway, hoping it would revive her, and was trounced by a wave. The heavy wool skirt of her swimsuit tangled around her shivering legs like the tentacles of a giant squid, and she went under.

  Edgar's arms reached down from behind and lifted her up. He escorted her to shore. He was barefoot and grinning, in a red-and-white-striped bathing suit that hit above the knees and clung to his body. Anna looked, but pretended not to. On better days, she loved Venice Beach. She loved to see men in wet bathing suits. But today the midway rollercoaster was out of order, she had tar between her toes, the canals smelled like fish, and only one scrawny muscleman lifted barbells. Her swimsuit was full of sand, her wet wool stockings itched, and that wasn't the very worst of it.

  Officer Singer knew her secrets.

  Anna and Edgar trudged through the shifting sand to a large umbrella, followed by the Widow Crisp. Anna turned to her chaperone. “Oh no. I didn't bring an umbrella for you. You'll be as red as a lobster.” She pointed to the nearest palm tree, which wasn't near at all. “Why don't you sit over there?”

  Edgar bit down on a smile. The Widow Crisp stomped off to the tree some thirty feet away. Anna moved the umbrella to block the Widow's view. She took off her white slippers, dumped out the sand, and re-laced their ribbons up her legs. Edgar grinned at her. He looked good in his suit—tall, strong, and fuzzy with body hair. She wished he would go to sleep so she could really look at him. It occurred to Anna that he might be thinking the same thing about her. She threw back her head and closed her eyes so he could take a good, long look.

  She wondered what Officer Singer would look like in his bathing suit. She imagined he'd look good—like the Arrow Collar Man.

  Edgar said, “I'm not sure why your chaperone is worried. I'm not going to kiss you on a public beach.”

  Anna saw no reason he shouldn't steal a kiss if he apologized for it. She tossed her head. “We are practically strangers. I hardly recognized you last night at the ball.”

  “I'm sorry I haven't been around much, darling. I do believe I've been a great help to your father. It's an unusual situation with the banks. It can't last.” He gave her an irresistible smile. “Do you forgive me?”

  Anna lifted his hand and put it flat against her own smaller one. She turned it over and languidly traced a figure eight on the inside of his sandy palm. She glanced up to find him studying her intently. It made her feel naked, and she dropped his hand. She gnawed on her lip and dug for sand crabs. Edgar cleared his throat. “When you eloped, were you alone with Louis Taylor overnight?”

  Anna's tired face grew hot. She hadn't expected this from Edgar. Not now, after their engagement was public. “I'd hardly say we were alone. We were traveling third class on a full train. My father had us apprehended shortly after we arrived. You know that. You were there!”

  Edgar looked away, a shock of salty black curls tumbling over his forehead. He picked up a handful of warm sand and let it fall between his fingers. “I'm sorry darling. It's just, you seem very…”

  Anna averted her eyes.

  He sighed. “Darling, you can't blame me for being jealous under the circumstances. The thing is…my first wife had something of a past.”

  Anna stared at him blankly. “First wife?”

  Edgar groaned. “I thought your father would have told you.”

  “Why didn't you tell me?” She leaned away from him, away from this bad revelation. Her own fiancé had been married and no one had bothered to tell her.

  Edgar scooted to face her. “Anna, darling. It's common knowledge. It's not as if I could hide it. I eloped when I was sixteen. All of Boston knew. My father nearly killed me.” He reached for her, but she batted him away.

  “I'm sorry. I honestly can't believe you didn't know.”

  Anna hugged her knees to her chest. Though it was hot, she pulled her wrap tight around her. She wanted to cover her shins so he couldn't see them. “Is that why you don't mind that I eloped? Because you eloped, too?”

  “I mind, believe me. I hate the thought that another man…had your heart. But I understand.” He raised his hand to touch her shoulder, but let his hand drop.

  “He didn't have my heart. I just wanted to get away, to have a little freedom.” Anna put a salty fist to her lips. “It was wrong for father to do what he did, but he was right about Louis. He ran like a rabbit.”

  “So, he told Louis he'd never get a cent?”

  “I suppose so. No one ever told me exactly what was said.”

  Edgar squinted his dark eyes. “Louis was a fool.”

  He looked so earnest, with his curls and bronzed cheeks; Anna thought she might forgive him. She didn't mind that he'd been married. In truth, she was glad he'd eloped. Otherwise, he might never have considered marrying her now. But he should have told her. She composed her face. “Was she beautiful?”

  “Very.”

  Anna's face fell.

  “But she had a cold heart,” he said.

  Anna brushed the sand off her shins. “Were you very sad when she died?”

  “Oh, she didn't die. She stole my mother's jewels and ran off with a soldier. It was an enormous scandal.”

  “Edgar, you're divorced? I can't marry you! We're Catholic.” Anna scrambled away from him as if he had some dreaded disease.

  He spoke in a soothing voice. “No, darling. Not divorced. Not divorced. My father had the marriage annulled, like yours did.”

  Anna took a deep breath. If the Pope said it was all right, she wasn't going to quibble. She let him pull her back under the umbrella and hold her hand. She peeked up at him. “Were you heartbroken?”

  “No,” he said. “I was relieved.”

  She dug her toes down deep to where the sand was wet and cool. “I won't run off with a soldier.”

  “What about a besotted police officer?” Only half his handsome face was smiling.

  “Really, Edgar!” She gave him a reproachful look. “Now, tell me. What else don't I know about my fiancé besides that he's jealous and very, very foolish?”

  “Hm. I don't eat chicken or head cheese.”
He grimaced. “I'm afraid of cats.”

  Anna suppressed a laugh. “Afraid of cats? That's silly.”

  “It's not very manly, I know.”

  She gingerly touched the long dark hair on his bare, muscular arm. “You are the standard for manly.”

  “If there weren't so many people, I'd kiss you for that.”

  On Monday morning, Anna didn't smell the city exhaust or hear the seagulls squawking overhead. She strode to the station with one thing on her mind—silencing Officer Singer. She began to chew nervously on her lips but stopped herself. Soft lips were important, in case one was ever alone with one's fiancé.

  Anna arrived as Officer Singer was hanging his helmet on a brass hook. He wore men's clothes, freshly returned from some outdoor beat, his face pink from the coolness of the morning. He looked deceptively innocent, like an ad for Pears’ Soap.

  Anna wrung the handle of her heinous leather bag and cast her eyes about the station. Mr. Melvin typed at his desk, minding his own business, or at least appearing to. Snow sat at a desk clear across the station. His index finger was buried in his mouth. He took it out and stuck it up his nose. Matron Clemens and Captain Wells bickered like a married couple in his windowed office. The blinds hung closed, but not nearly closed enough. Wolf was nowhere to be seen. The public seating area was empty. The patrolmen were out.

  No one was paying attention to Anna. She stole to Joe's side and twinkled with artificial amity. “Good morning, Officer Singer.”

  His reciprocating smile was real. “Assistant Matron Holmes. Why don't you make me some coffee?”

  He relished bossing her. Anna could tell. She lifted her chin. “I don't know how.”

  “I suppose that makes sense. What can you do besides dress up like a bird of paradise?”

  “I can do a lot.”

  “Oh, that's right. You knit blankets for orphans.” He smirked. “How did you get Matron Clemens to hire you? Not with the orphan fabrication.”