Bright Young Things (19 page)

19

CORDELIA HAD ONLY THE SOUND OF HER OWN breathing to keep her company as she stepped through the cool darkness. Occasionally she put out a hand to touch the wall, which was lined with unfinished planks, and she quickly learned to do so gingerly for fear of picking up splinters. Taking the secret tunnel that began in Dogwood‧s library was more frightening by herself, but more thrilling, too.

Still she was relieved to come upon the flight of stairs that ended in a trapdoor. She pushed up through it and found herself, for the second time that day, in the tall reeds of a sandy stretch of land near a pebble beach. The sky was a deep blue by then, and the pier where she and Charlie had hailed a passing fisherman that morning jutted out in front of her, over the smooth, lustrous water. She went to the edge of the dock and stood there in her red dress. She had been specific about the red dress. The air was warm enough that she didn‧t even need to cover her shoulders; all that was required was a few yards of silk, secured with inch-wide straps above a U-shaped neckline, falling loosely away from the skin.

Then she went through the series of actions, just as she had described them on the telephone. She took a cigarette from the small eel-skin purse she carried and lit a match. The flame flared up, a flash in the warm night air. A few seconds passed, and then she heard the lazy splashing of oars moving through still water. She didn‧t make him out until he was almost at the pier, and by then her face tingled with anticipation.

Thom was sitting in a rowboat, wearing white slacks and a navy collared shirt with tiny gold stripes under a beige cardigan. His hair was burnished with oil, and his face was lit with a subdued smile that grew when they were close enough to see each other in detail. It was strange to see him now, when she knew what kind of life he came from, for he wasn‧t at all like Charlie—he had none of her brother‧s bluntness, and his features were so much more whittled and fine, and he seemed to take everything in stride instead of going so extravagantly hot and cold.

Placing her cigarette between her teeth, she lowered herself so that she was sitting on the edge of the pier. He stood, balanced himself in the well-worn boat, and then extended his hand. She bent, took it, and falling a little against him, came down into the hull. There was unsteadiness beneath her, but Thom had her solidly by the shoulders. A bird cawed overhead, and the sound echoed across the lonely bay waters. He took the cigarette from her lips and threw it over the side, and then paused, studying her with those calm green-brown eyes. She waited for him to kiss her. When he finally did, any trepidation she had had—about seeing him against her father‧s wishes or using Charlie‧s secret to her advantage—all but disappeared. She swayed with it, her consciousness rising up to the place where her mouth was open to his.

“I‧ve been thinking about doing that since I last saw you,” he said, bringing his head back but still holding on to her by the torso.

“Is that right?” she answered playfully.

His only reply was that heartbreaking smile.

How interesting she felt to be out in the world without a single soul knowing her whereabouts, and at the same time wearing a very fashionable dress. Something he‧d said to her on the first night they met, about it being a perfect moment, repeated in her thoughts. Now it seemed to her that every moment with him was its own variety of perfection, and she was happy to be in this one as long as it lasted—the boat rocking just slightly, the mingling smells of salt and musk, his grip on her light and strong at the same time.

What followed was a string of moments, each following the last in a glittering strand: They coasted across the water, coming eventually to an abandoned stretch of road where he‧d left his car. She hardly cared if they went anywhere, but then he started the motor and they headed in the direction of the city.

“More speakeasies?” she asked as they drove.

“You‧ll see,” he answered.

Along they went, in no particular hurry, into the darkness and the city beyond. The weather had been fine for some weeks now, but that night was the first that held the heat of the day even long after dark had settled in. All over town, in every kind of joint, people were drunk with summer.

Eventually Thom pulled over on an East Side block at the heart of the metropolis, although it was quiet at that hour. He came around and helped Cordelia out, draping his sweater over her shoulders as she stepped onto the curb.

“But I‧m not cold,” she protested sweetly.

“You might be, where we‧re going” was all the explanation he gave.

The darkened building in front of them appeared to have no solid walls—it was difficult to see anything, except where little lights strung on a wire illuminated a structure of massive beams. They stepped forward, into the shadows, over piles of cable and brick and steel. This was not the kind of scene she had imagined Thom escorting her to—but by then she had frequented drinking establishments lurking behind all manner of incongruous facades, and so, for a few brief minutes, she considered herself now too sophisticated to be surprised.

A man in a hard hat and undershirt came forward from the gloom. He met Thom‧s eyes but did not so much as glance at Cordelia. Their hands clasped for a few seconds, exchanging something. Then the man lit a lantern.

“Watch your step, miss,” he said, before leading them deeper into the site. Thom‧s hand rested on the small of her back as they followed. “Stand there.” The man indicated the place with a burly arm, and Thom eased her toward it.

There was the sound of a lever being pulled, a creaking of hinges, a slipping of ropes. She reached for Thom‧s arm, and he pulled her closer to him, brushing his lips against her cheekbone.

“I hope no one is drunk up there,” she joked as they began to rise faster.

“No,” he replied lightly. “I thought I‧d show you something more interesting this evening. Just you and me.”

As they went higher, they passed through less-completed parts of the structure, and they could just make out the faces of other buildings, patchworks of illumination and darkness, beyond the lattice of beams. By the time the lift came to a stop, they were higher than any of the surrounding buildings. A real city is never dark, even at night; tonight, with the humid air to reflect its limitless activity, Manhattan was a soft purple. Cordelia couldn‧t be sure if it really was colder up high, or if it was the dizzying height that made her shiver.

“Come on.” Thom took her hand, grinning again. “We‧ve only got ten minutes.”

“To do what?” she whispered, but he was already stepping carefully along a great steel beam, pulling her behind him. Her breath was short, and she was glad the ground was too far below them to make out. At that perilous height, it occurred to her that despite his charm and beautifully smooth face—or maybe because of it—Thom was a boy she had been warned not to be with. No one in the world knew where she was—a little while ago she had been proud of that fact, but now she began to wonder at herself for allowing him to take her someplace so secret and so dangerous. She shuddered to think what one good push would do and how little all her pretty red silk would do to cushion the fatal fall.

But then she caught sight of the view, and her breath came back to her. “Oh!” was all she could manage.

Below—a long ways below—the island tapered away from them in electric rows that were sometimes neat and that sometimes jerked unexpectedly. Apartment buildings and office towers reached for the sky with varying degrees of success, their broad vertical lines silently striving. There was a good deal of movement through the arteries of the city, everything flowing and bright, around and around, as though according to the directives of a very restless heart. They stood near the edge; one of Thom‧s arms wrapped around a great thrust of steel, the other holding her secure by the waist.

The height no longer made her feel fragile. Now it created a sense of being above it all, almost invincible, and she couldn‧t help but think of the tender girl who used to be her best friend and who was now out there, among the lights down there, entertaining a crowd with her voice. Cordelia smiled wistfully and thought that a city is a very wonderful thing, after all.

Letty was indeed out there among millions of New Yorkers, and though her name was not in fact a cause for illumination yet, she was by then at ease in her job. She‧d told herself that it was just like acting, and she had put on a persona. After that, she bumped into fewer things, and her movements became more fluid, her smile more winning. Paulette and the other girls agreed: Letty Larkspur was a natural. She‧d taken to the job as quickly as any cigarette girl in Seventh Heaven history. Also she was petite, and that helped, because she could move across the crowded floor with such alacrity.

The nights had begun to blend together, and usually she only saw a few hours of daylight in between, because she was returning from work so late and so entirely exhausted. Her feet were always swollen, her head foggy. But it seemed to her a noble kind of fatigue, and in truth, there was no place else Letty would rather have been. Except, of course, onstage—but in the meantime she felt very lucky to have the club to go to. And every day in New York was so obviously a new day—hopeful, chock-full, yawning with possibility.

“Letty!” Grady called out as she passed. He was at the end of the bar, perched on his usual stool, wearing herringbone and nursing a beer.

But she was too busy. She tried to meet his eyes over her shoulder, to let him know she had heard him, but she wasn‧t certain if he‧d noticed. Anyway, she hadn‧t the time. The room was full, and the patrons were giddy and ready to buy anything that was put under their noses. It was a sea of faces, heads bent together as far as the eye could see: women in turbans, men with a fine glaze over the combed-straight strands of their hair, gesticulating with one hand, balancing glass and cigarette in the other. Girls in cream-colored uniforms that offered varying degrees of coverage rose above their shoulders, inclining forward with stuffed brassieres and glossy smiles. The chatter was rapid-fire, but it was no competition for the band, as usual. She moved between tables with the grace of a swan, bending back and forth, flashing her eyes when necessary. There was a rhythm to the job, which she became more expert at with every passing hour. She listened to her intuition and knew when to be salty with a patron and when to be sweet.

“Letty!” She had done a turn about the room and again passed Grady‧s barstool in a rush.

“Hello!” she replied this time. No one was waving bills at her now, and two or three other girls were engaged in transactions only a few tables in. Up onstage, Alice Grenadine, the big blonde with the privileged relationship to the house manager, was beginning her first number, pressing her palms into her lap and batting her lashes outrageously.

“If I buy a pack of smokes, will you talk a minute?”

“Why not, mister?” Letty gave Grady a bold wink as she turned away from the stage, bringing her shoulder coquettishly toward her chin. Paulette had given her some pointers on this maneuver, and she‧d been practicing in the mirror. “What‧s your brand?”

“Lucky Strikes.” He handed her a coin and waved away the change. Then he began unwrapping the foil and placed a cigarette between his teeth. She struck a match along the side of her box of wares and lit it for him. This, too, was a move she‧d practiced in the mirror, although she had not done it for a customer yet.

“Thank you,” he said. Then she knew she‧d pulled it off, and she felt almost giddy to have a new trick. As he exhaled, he moved his hand to his head, just above his ear, thoughtfully scratching. “I‧ve been wanting to tell you … I think I know where your friend is.”

The smile dropped away from her face. “What friend?” she said.

At the front entrance, a man whose face was already pink with drink was yelling about being let in. Every table in the place was already occupied, and the bar was crowded with those who wanted to be inside even if it meant standing, but despite Mr. Cole‧s calm explanation of this fact, the pink-faced fellow only yelled louder.

“Didn‧t you say her name was Cordelia? I read about a girl named Cordelia, from Ohio, similar age as you, in one of the papers this morning. She‧s the bootlegger Darius Grey‧s long-lost daughter—you must have known? Grey is overjoyed to have her back, sparing no expense, et cetera, et cetera. And I know she was here the other night, when you said you saw her, because apparently she came with Duluth Hale‧s son, who is of course Grey‧s sworn enemy, and her father sent some of his goons to pull her out quick.” Grady paused to fidget with the stub of his cigarette. His words had been coming in a tumble, as though he was nervous. “So perhaps she wasn‧t running away from you after all.”

Letty‧s eyes became damp, and she felt that knot of pain in her throat that means that tears may be imminent, no matter how fiercely one orders them away. The girl she‧d called her best friend for half her life had, in less than a week, become unknown to her. Cordelia had climbed several social rungs, and maybe she‧d had to be a solo act to do it, but in any event, her clothes and company were now better than any they used to imagine together. Letty no longer thought it was only a secret that had separated them—for Cordelia had seen her, she knew where she was, and still had not bothered to send word, and Grady‧s kind explanation did not change this fact. Perhaps she was too fine now to be friends with a girl who worked for her keep … But there was nothing for Letty to do but hide the wound and try her best not to care.

“I don‧t know. In fact, I‧ve never heard of any of those people in my whole life.” Letty swallowed her tears and then, as if on cue, smiled incandescently.

Before Grady could say anything more, she sashayed forward along the bar without looking back. Grady was nice, and she knew everything he did was well intentioned, but she wanted to be far away from him and whatever he knew. And after she had made a few exchanges and blushed once or twice, half sincerely, she had stopped feeling whatever it was that she hadn‧t wanted to feel, and forgotten about Cordelia—mostly.