by Denise Dietz
Flo stepped forward and pressed her face against Jack’s shirt. “Please don’t be angry.”
With an almost violent gesture, he pushed her away. Then he sat in his chair and fumbled for a match to relight his pipe.
She stumbled a few steps backwards, surprised. Why had Jack responded that way? Why were his eyes so cold?
“It was a mistake moving to Colorado Springs,” he said. “You’ve learned how to use your beauty as a weapon. I never realized it until now, but you’ve absorbed more than French and Spanish from the inmates at Little Heaven.”
“That’s not fair!”
“Be careful, Flo. You have Lytton wound around your pretty finger, but weapons are dangerous. A gun can misfire, and a sword—no matter how blunted—can still slash.”
She mumbled something about the water closet, and fled from the parlor. How dare Jack speak to her that way! For years she had cleaned his cabin, washed his clothes, cooked his meals, and posed for endless hours, expecting nothing in return. But she had forgotten that Jack was a man, and all men were the same. Bulls is bulls.
Entering the bathroom, she saw her face reflected in the mirror. She couldn’t see any definitive resemblance to Edward Lytton, except perhaps the cleft in her chin, but she did see something else. Her complexion was unblemished, her nose and mouth well defined. Her eyes were very blue, framed by inky lashes. If her face had belonged to another woman, Flo would have thought: How beautiful.
Minta and Blueberry had used their beauty to gain advantages, but they hadn’t aimed high enough. They had followed their hearts rather than their heads. No man would ever wield that kind of power over “Flower Smith.”
She remembered her reunion with Cat McDonald two years ago, and his words suddenly became crystal clear. A nighttime picnic. A new dress and hat. His voice syrupy, his demeanor decidedly unspiritual. Cat had been negotiating a fee. How could she have been so naive?
“I’ll get Edward to borrow John Chinook from Triangle and costar him in one of Flower’s movies,” she told her reflection. “Our next meeting will be very different. I’ll have Cat on his knees, begging for my favors, and he’ll offer more than lemonade or a new hat.”
What had Jack just said? Something about Edward fishing and luring her to his bed. Well, Flower Smith would do the fishing. She’d bait her hook, reel in her catch, and let Cat McDonald flop on the ground, gasping for air.
Edward’s “sword” was blunted. He hadn’t lied. After she had scorned his younger-associates offer, he’d remained in Colorado Springs, turning his Antlers suite into an office. They had supped together two evenings. As he escorted her through the plush dining rooms, Flo had sensed Edward’s pride of ownership. Jack was mistaken. Control wasn’t achieved by pandering to one portion of a man’s anatomy. Edward’s ego was Flo’s advantage.
But Jack had an ego, too. Didn’t all men? And Flo needed him to play the part of her uncle. Returning to the parlor, she saw that he still sat in his armchair, his mouth set in a sulk. He was no longer the amenable friend who protected her from thunderstorms and laughed with her over movie magazines. If she had changed, so had he. She had grown up and he didn’t like it. Did he want her to remain frozen in one graven image, like Leah?
She took a few uncertain steps forward, planning to sit on Jack’s lap and smooth the scowl from his brow. Then she remembered his violent gesture, pushing her away.
Thank God she had never told him the name of her real mother and father. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed audibly.
“Flo?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Don’t cry, honey. I didn’t mean what I said before. I was jealous of a man old enough to be your grandfather. Isn’t that insane? Do you feel faint?”
“I never faint.”
“And you rarely cry. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.” She smiled through her tears, but her lower lip quivered anew.
“Here, have a caramel. There’s a box of candy somewhere in this clutter. I can’t find my handkerchief. Wipe your face with the doily. We don’t want your eyes all red and teary when the Scotts return from church.”
“Edward is collecting me, not the Scotts. We’ve planned an outing, a ride on the Cog Railroad, straight up the mountains. Won’t you join us?”
“No.”
“Give Edward a chance, Jack. You’d like him.”
“Why? Because we have so much in common?”
“Yes. Me. You have me in common.”
Jack sucked at his pipe stem. “Sandy has arranged a gallery exhibit in New York City, and he wants me to be there for the opening. Would you like to tag along? We could stay at a grand hotel and go shopping on Fifth Avenue.”
“I wish I could, Jack, but I can’t leave right now.”
I can’t leave Edward, she thought.
“I can’t leave Marylander,” she said.
* * * * *
“Aunt Sally” allied herself with Flo and convinced Lorenzo to play along.
Opening her closet doors wide, she said, “The blue velvet is perfect for the Antlers’ main dining room tonight. The Cheyenne Mountain Club is less formal, so tomorrow night you’ll wear my gray skirt and matching jacket, the one with mink trim. Fur at a woman’s neckline makes a man itch to add a jewel. Don’t forget to unbutton your jacket later in the evening. The blouse beneath is low-cut and very sheer. You must lean forward just so. You want to give Edward a taste, not the whole banquet.”
If a man’s wealth and power were aphrodisiacs, clothes were a woman’s arsenal. The blue velvet gown dipped to Flo’s waist in back, and this time she pinned her hair up. Edward’s gift of a diamond pendant had to be a result of the blue velvet, since he presented her with the jewel during their next dinner date, before he had a chance to feast on fur.
Gazing down at the diamond, Flo experienced a moment of genuine guilt, but it swiftly vanished. Why shouldn’t she receive an expensive gift from her grandfather? Didn’t he owe her much more for his years of neglect?
She sighed and said, “This is lovely, Edward, but I can’t accept it.”
“Poppycock, Flower. It’s a gesture made in friendship, nothing more.”
“I know, but—”
“I realize this trinket is a mere trifle,” he said, his voice peevish. “Your grandmother probably owned a necklace handed down by Marie Antoinette.”
“Have I ever worn any trinket except my nugget ring? The family heirlooms are in France. I would prefer Papa return to Colorado unscathed and leave all those baubles to rot.”
“I’m sorry, dear girl. My remarks were uncalled for. I behaved like a churlish barbarian. Won’t you accept this pendant as an apology?”
The next night he apologized with matching earrings.
Flo knew the first meeting with her father was imminent. She had prepared herself well and was determined to remain in control. She wanted to surround herself with other people, so she suggested a dinner party. Ned and his wife would travel, by train, from Denver; a suite was reserved for them at the Antlers. Engraved invitations were issued to Spencer and Julia Penrose, Lorenzo and Sally Scott, Claude DuBois and his protégé, Ruthie Adams.
To Flo’s vast relief, Jack couldn’t attend. He was in New York, hosting his art exhibit.
* * * * *
Accompanied by Sally and Lorenzo, Flo walked through the Antlers’ lobby. Her peach velvet gown had been copied from a pen-and-ink illustration of a fourteenth-century English lady. Cut to fit closely over Flo’s breasts and waist, the tight sleeves were wrist-length. White ermine surrounded a fairly low neckline. The skirt, a darker orange velvet, encircled Flo’s hips with more ermine.
The white fur brought to mind Teddy and Alice, the bunnies she had long ago released to their natural habitat. If only she could be released to her natural habitat, entertain the Lytton family inside Jack’s snug cabin. Flo straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. She must never forget that she was a Lytton.
Sally had sugg
ested an intricate hairstyle, one that would complement the gown’s elegance. Together, they had perused an illustrated history book.
“It must be English because your gown is English,” Sally had said, turning pages. “Here’s one associated with Queen Henrietta, wife of King Charles, but she was French. Not that it matters. After all,” she said with a grin, “you’re the daughter of French aristocracy.”
“No, Sally. I’m the daughter of a fille de joie, plain and simple.”
The hairstyle was neither plain nor simple. First, Sally combed a short fringe across Flo’s forehead. Then her skilled fingers drew Flo’s hair into a coiled plait, worn high, decorated with tiny white silk flowers.
I’m all grown up and my hair never did turn yellow, Flo thought, admiring Sally’s blonde chignon. But at least I’m prepared to meet Nugget Ned Lytton.
When she did, it was one of the biggest disappointments in her whole life.
Her father looked older than her grandfather!
The white shirt beneath Ned’s suit jacket barely contained his stomach. Thin strands of hair had been combed forward, like a Roman Emperor, to hide his balding forehead. His cleft chin had blurred into a layered neck, where a bow tie wobbled precariously. His nose, cheeks and jowls were puffy. Reddish veins crisscrossed just below the skin’s surface.
He kissed the back of Flo’s right hand, and momentarily her heart skipped a beat. Would he recognize his nugget ring? Why hadn’t she slipped it from her finger? Perhaps she had wanted to challenge his memory.
But he wasn’t focusing on the ring. His lips were too busy devouring her knuckles. She drew back, resisting the urge to wipe her hands on her skirt.
Why had Blueberry loved this bloated rogue?
Standing amidst the green-and-ivory splendor of the Antlers’ main dining room, Flo remembered Minta’s words: “Nugget Ned would capture a woman’s heart with a snap of his fingers, but he had a roving eye.”
Now his roving eye lingered on the white fur at Flo’s neckline. Repressing the impulse to slap his face, she turned toward Johanna, whose gown was hopelessly out of date, its heavy material adding to her considerable bulk. If Flo had dressed like a fourteenth-century English maiden, Johanna preferred America’s Civil War era. Her full skirts were extended over layers of hoops and petticoats, and Flo wondered how she could stand so motionless without sinking to the floor in a puddle of gold brocade.
Perspiration beaded Johanna’s brow while rivulets trickled through her gray-brown curls, bunched together at both sides of her full-moon face. She had small, pout-puckered lips beneath a thin line of facial hair. Her dark eyes were beautiful but soulful, like a basset hound puppy.
“Steven was so disappointed he had to stay at home,” she said to Edward. “He misses his favorite grandfather.”
“And I miss the lad. I’ll make it up to him. Perhaps a new pony, eh?”
“Steven is your oldest child, Mrs. Lytton?”
“No, Miss Smith, my youngest. He was christened Edward Steven but we call him Steven. He’s ten. Kate’s around your age. Dorothy’s nineteen. Dear me! Time passes so quickly, doesn’t it? Only yesterday Kate and Dorothy played with dolls. Kate still plays with dolls . . .” As Johanna’s voice trailed off, a crater-shaped crease dimpled her forehead.
Flo’s mind raced. Kate was her age. So Ned had abandoned Blueberry to marry Johanna and make Kate legitimate. Dorothy, named for Dolly. Edward Steven, the heir. All tied up in one neat package.
Why had Ned looked so startled when Johanna mentioned Kate? His face had assumed an expression Flo couldn’t decipher. He hadn’t looked that way when Johanna talked about his other children.
Before she could evaluate Ned’s reaction any further, Ruthie Adams arrived. Dressed in the same lemon-yellow gown she had worn at the Penrose Ball, she gushed and giggled over Edward. When he didn’t respond, she shifted her attention to Ned.
A servile Claude DuBois ignored Ruthie’s behavior and hovered by Edward’s side. Claude wore an oversized tuxedo, obviously rented. He’d rolled up the sleeves and pant legs but the white waistcoat sagged below his skinny flanks. Now Flo understood why the director preferred jodhpurs. They gave him thighs.
“You said to dress formal for social events, Mr. Lytton,” Claude muttered, eyeballing the other men’s dark suits.
Spencer and Julia Penrose had declined the invitation with regret—they had a previous engagement. Edward and his seven guests sat around the finely laid table. A waiter popped the cork on a bottle of champagne.
DuBois immediately rose from his chair. “Flower signed her contract today, so I want to propose a toast. Here’s to Dollyscope Productions and our success with Foibles.”
While Ned signaled a waiter and ordered whiskey, Edward lifted his crystal champagne goblet. “Here’s to Flower Smith, the star who will ensure the success of our company.”
Seated on his right, Flo inhaled fizzy bubbles.
Claude still stood. “Of course we must drink to Flower,” he said. “We have our first script and I can’t wait to begin. Flower can even use her own mare, though I suggested a name change. The audience wouldn’t understand Dumas. They prefer simple names like Pinto Ben or Dorado or Tony. Maybe we should name Dumas for Flower’s ring. Call her Nugget.”
“They called me Nugget Ned when I dug for gold in Cripple Creek,” slurred Ned from the foot of the table.
“Oh, you naughty boy. You’re drinkin’ whiskey. Can I have a taste?” Without waiting for a reply, Ruthie seized Ned’s glass and drank, leaving lip-rouge smears on the crystal’s rim.
Claude unclasped her fingers from the goblet. For a moment he seemed to contemplate pouring its contents into the centerpiece of roses and chrysanthemums. But he merely leaned across Ruthie and placed the glass at Ned’s elbow.
Flo wondered why DuBois kept such a ninny under his wing. He wasn’t attractive, yet his director’s status should have warranted any number of women. Maybe Ruthie had a hold on him, something from his past. Was Cat the connection?
Edward summoned the waiter, nodded toward Ned’s glass, raised two fingers. “If anyone else prefers a different beverage, please feel free to order at your convenience.”
“I would enjoy a bottle of that medicinal mineral water from Manitou Springs, Edward.” Johanna swiveled her face to the right. “I understand you make candy, Mr. Scott.”
“Yes, Mrs. Lytton. In fact, I own a shop on Tejon Street, not far from the Antlers. If you visit my confectionery before your train leaves for Denver, I’ll give you a gift selection.”
Johanna licked her lips. “Perhaps a few treats for the children. Do you have children, Mr. Scott?”
From her seat on Edward’s left, Sally said, “We have a little girl. Her name is Marylander. She’s ten.”
“The same age as Steven. I shall have to tell him all about her. Marylander’s an uncommon name.”
“It was my maiden name, Mrs. Lytton.”
Flo dipped her spoon into her soup and looked toward the end of the table. “Did everybody in Cripple Creek call you Nugget Ned, Mr. Lytton?”
“Yes. Pseudonyms were an element of the time. I recall a man named Preacher and a woman named Leo the Lion. Maybe we should consider a lion for Dollyscope’s logotype. It could roar before the movie begins.”
Claude shook his head. “A lion might frighten people, especially children.”
“Mr. Lytton, did you ever meet a lady named . . . Minta LaRue?” Flo had meant to say Blueberry, but while Ned might be dissipated, he wasn’t dense. Surely he’d remember Blueberry.
“I don’t recall the name LaRue, but I met many odd people. For example, Preacher wasn’t a preacher and some professor fellow was illiterate.”
The waiter collected the soup dishes, replacing them with small plates for salmon and boiled Philadelphia chicken in cream sauce.
“Minta’s story is very sad,” said Flo, ignoring the appetizer. “She fell in love, but her so-called gentleman abandoned her and she died in childbirth
.”
“Oh, that is a sad story.” Johanna sniffled.
“Perhaps,” said Flo, “we might script Minta’s story for Dollyscope’s first full-length motion picture.”
“It would never work.” Claude dabbed at his sleeve with a napkin, trying to remove a blob of cream sauce. “The public wants happy endings.”
“What do you think, Mr. Lytton?”
“Please call me Ned, Miss Smith. I agree with DuBois. More to the point, who would pay money to watch such a common theme?”
“I would,” Johanna said. “Was Minta married, Miss Smith? Did her husband betray her?”
“Yes. He was able to pull the wool over her eyes because she loved him. I’m not sure they were legally wed, but I believe her gentleman swore fidelity.”
“And she believed him?”
“Yes, Ned, she did.”
“Then she was a stupid chit and could never be a Dollyscope heroine.”
The waiter served the entrée—veal curry, peach fritters in wine sauce, stewed tomatoes and succotash. So far, Flo had not tasted one bite of her celebration dinner.
Edward didn’t know the reason for her lack of appetite, but he thought it might be Ned’s crude rebuttal. After all, Flower had eagerly offered her movie idea for Ned’s consideration. Later, in private, Edward would chastise his son, insist Ned use more tact.
“I’ve heard that Sheena Owens wears false eyelashes for her role of Princess Beloved in D.W. Griffith’s Intolerance,” Sally said, in an obvious attempt to change the subject. “Is that true, Flower?”
“Yes. Sheena’s lashes were created by a wig maker who wove human hair through the warp of thin gauze. Every day two small pieces were cut from the end of a gauze strip and gummed to Sheena’s eyelids. We shall have to try that trick, Edward.”
“Poppycock! Your own lashes are so long and thick, they nearly hide the blue of your eyes.”
“So what? Blue, brown, movies ain’t made in color.” Ruthie dropped her empty whiskey glass and hugged her stomach. “I don’t feel good.”
Sally stood up. “I need to powder my nose. Miss Adams, would you accompany me?”
“Where?”