Vixen (26 page)

Clara whistled. Her bland-as-bread cousin was headlining
at the hottest speakeasy in Chicago? Clara had to give Gloria some credit. The girl was wilder than she’d initially thought. “Brava,” she said, clapping softly. “That’s so much better than anything I could have imagined.”

Gloria nodded, her eyes aglow. “It really is, isn’t it?”

“So that’s where you were sneaking off to? Rehearsal?”

“Yes!”
Gloria squeaked. She looked happier than Clara had ever seen her.

“Look at you,” Clara said. “I’m impressed.”

“No one else knows,” Gloria gushed. “Except for Raine, of course. Oh, and Marcus.”

Marcus.

“You can come if you want,” Gloria offered. “To my first show. I mean, safer to have you there, where I can see you, than here with Mother, where you might blab.”

Clara was surprised to be invited. Flattered, even. And only the slightest bit suspicious. “Sure,” she replied. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”

But that was a problem. Clara wanted to attend her cousin’s debut as herself—her real self. Everyone in Chicago thought she was Country Clara, so she couldn’t exactly show up at the Green Mill all vamped up without causing a stir. But she didn’t need to go as some dowdy hick, either—where was the fun in that? She needed someone she could blame for Clara’s getting all dolled up.

She needed Lorraine Dyer.

So she made a plan.

Flatter Lorraine.

Convince her that it would be
so unfortunate
to show up for Gloria’s debut with Country Clara in tow.

Ask if Lorraine could find it in her heart to share her style and expertise to help Clara look a little bit more modern.

Let Lorraine take credit for transforming Clara into a flapper.

The night of the debut, Clara went to Lorraine’s house.

Lorraine’s mother opened the door. “Oh, hello, Clara,” she said. She was like a tidier, older, more serious version of her daughter. She wore a darkly elegant dress and had her hair pinned up in a sleek French twist.

Lorraine was standing behind her, blank-faced as a little girl.

“I’m off to the opera, Lorraine, dear. Please don’t give Marguerite any trouble.” Mrs. Dyer blinked at Clara. “A pleasure to meet you, and my apologies that I have to run. I hope we see more of you soon.” She swept out the door and into a waiting car, which motored away.

“My parents attend a lot of events,” Lorraine explained in passing.

They got ready in Lorraine’s room, Eddie Cantor playing on the gramophone, two tumblers of gin poised on the dresser next to an almost embarrassingly huge spread of
makeup. Lorraine rested her elbows on her vanity and held down the bottom rim of her eye so that she could blacken the thin pink line with kohl.

Clara watched from the edge of the bed. Lorraine really was a striking girl, but her strong features were the complete opposite of the dainty, fair femininity that was so in fashion these days. Lorraine’s glossy black bob was blunt-cut and her bangs nearly reached her wide-set eyes, which were a dull hazel. She was tall and angular, with a coltish way of holding herself—as if she had yet to grow into her long torso and longer limbs.

Clara got up and went to stand behind her. “I wish I had your body. Your hips are practically half my size.”

Lorraine’s grin was huge and instantaneous. “Really?” she asked, squeezing her waist. “I think my hips look like teacup handles.”

“No, I’m so jealous!” Clara exclaimed. “And your chest—you’re so lucky you don’t have to bother with some horrible compression device.”

Lorraine turned sideways in the mirror, admiring her mosquito-bite boobs. “It’s just the dress,” she said, straightening her red Callot Soeurs frock. It was sleeveless, long—almost to her ankles—but incredibly sexy, with satin trim and beading around the waistline. “The French always know how to dress a woman’s body.”

Clara made a face at her own dress, which was something of her aunt’s. She’d worn it purposefully, hoping Lorraine
would be embarrassed by the prospect of being seen with Clara in it. “I feel like I’m going camping in mine.” She held out the extra material until it looked like a tent.

“Do you want to borrow something?”

Clara did her best wide-eyed grateful look. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“I have a row of dresses just sitting in my closet, most still with the tags on—it’s really not a big deal. Besides”—Lorraine sighed impatiently, her eyes traveling to Clara’s
passé
frock—“last season is one thing, but last century is something else. Sure, this is Gloria’s night, but that doesn’t mean
we
can’t look
très chic, oui?
”

“Oh, that would really be swell!” Clara exclaimed. This was too easy. “But do you really think I can pull it off?” she asked. “I mean, obviously I’m not half the smarty that
you
are.”

Lorraine paused before swiping at her lips with a vampire-red lipstick. “Don’t worry.” She smiled brightly, absorbing Clara’s admiration like a human sponge. “I can’t promise miracles, but I can promise mascara.”

“What happened to you?” Marcus asked Clara as the girls sauntered into the Green Mill. He looked stunned.

He wasn’t the only one. They both got long, lingering looks. Lorraine wore a red boa draped over her sparkling
dress, the expensive fabric shimmering in the light. Her long silk gloves were as black as the kohl around her eyes. Even Clara had to admit the girl looked stunning.

And Clara was stunning, too. Her backless dress was a shade lighter than her honey-blond locks. She looked like a film star.

“I don’t think Marcus likes my new look,” Clara said demurely. He didn’t look half bad himself, in black trousers and a short gray jacket over a navy-blue embroidered vest. A sharp-looking bow tie completed the ensemble.

“No, I mean, it’s—You’re—You look … different?” he said, rubbing his knuckles under his chin in contemplation.

“I take complete blame,” Lorraine cooed, linking arms with Clara. “Doesn’t she look like the real McCoy?”

“Clearly, I learned from the reigning
queen
,” Clara said, tossing her head back regally. Lorraine did look good—if a bit overdone—but Clara could see that Marcus was still focused on her.

Not that she was complaining. Every girl in the club was vying for his attention. Amid a sea of dark-haired, well-manicured businessmen and mobsters, Marcus was the thrilling opposite—young and blond and full of life.

Of course, Marcus wasn’t only a pretty face. (Clara almost wished he were—it would make life a lot simpler.) He had grown on her. Yes, she had wanted to eschew another romantic entanglement, but perhaps some things were simply unavoidable.

Marcus glowed at her. Suddenly, in a flash of memory, she saw
him
—the Cad, not Marcus—before her, smiling that dazzling smile, seducing her as if it were a game. Clara blinked, and the club came back into focus.

Allowing herself to get comfortable with Marcus was not going to be easy.

Gloria was supposed to come on soon, so they all moved to a reserved booth near the corner of the stage. Gloria’s doing, otherwise they would have been standing in the back. The booths near them were filled with gangsters in dark suits and flappers in dresses so brilliant they were nearly blinding.

“You think I should go back and check on our girl?” Lorraine said, taking a sip of a toxic-looking drink—a yellowish mixture with something creamy on top. “It’s almost eleven-thirty.”

“These types of things always start late,” Clara said casually. And then caught herself. “I mean, that’s what I’ve always read in the rags. The start time is just a ploy to get people into the room.”

“Country Clara dons my flapper dress and suddenly she’s the expert!” Lorraine laughed obnoxiously. “If I didn’t know any better, Clara, I’d think you’d spent your whole life in a club!”

Clara laughed nervously. “We don’t have speakeasies in Pennsylvania,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Too many Amish.”

“Says you!” Lorraine retorted with a guffaw.

Marcus nudged Clara’s knee under the table. “Well, I think she looks like a baby doll.” He winked at her. “Beauty must run deep in the Carmody blood.”

“Speaking of the other Carmody, I really do think we should go back and check on her,” Lorraine said. “Clara, dear. You’re family. Why don’t you go?”

Clara sighed. Lorraine’s ploys were as transparent as a sheet of glass. Clara felt bad for Lorraine—lusting after someone who clearly wasn’t interested never ended well. Telltale signs of desperation were etched across Lorraine’s face: a little too much makeup, tiny beads of sweat lining her forehead, eyes darting back and forth all around the club, trying to avoid their sole real target: Marcus.

Clara wished she could take Lorraine aside and smack some sense into her.
Marcus isn’t interested
, she would say.
You’re a smart, fun, pretty girl—you’ll find someone else
.

Instead, Clara decided to give Lorraine exactly what she wanted: time alone with Marcus. Besides, things were getting a little too comfortable with his hand on her knee. She needed a breather.

“You know how sensitive Gloria is—let’s let her be. But I wouldn’t mind refreshing all of your drinks.” Clara stood up and gathered Lorraine’s and Marcus’s empty glasses. “Any special requests?”

“Why don’t I go with you?” Marcus offered, sliding out of the booth.

“Absolutely out of the question! It would be completely
improper of you to leave a girl as beautiful as Raine here at the table by herself.” And before Marcus could protest, Clara sashayed off.

She slithered through the crowd, drinking in the dark ambiance of the club, and shouldered her way to the bar.

She rested one hand on the stained mahogany. It felt so familiar and easy to be standing there. Not at the Green Mill, of course, but at a speakeasy in general. As if she could step back into her old life as easily as she might order a drink.

“One Pink Lady, one whiskey sour, and …” She realized she hadn’t ordered a drink for herself since New York. “And one dirty martini. More dry than dirty, though. With two olives.”

“Gotta get more vermouth from the basement,” the bartender said. “You mind cooling your heels?”

He disappeared just as there was a bustle on the stage. The band members were taking their places. Clara felt a swell of excitement. What could be better than sitting in the dark and listening to good music? Only sitting in the dark and listening to good music with someone you loved.

A handsome black man, whom Clara recognized from last time as the pianist, took the microphone. Jerome Johnson.

“Ladies and gentleman, sheiks and shebas, tonight is a very special night.” His voice immediately sent a hush over the rowdy crowd. “Not only because the Jerome Johnson Band has a new member to introduce to all of you, but because”—he paused, ensuring that he had the attention of
every last person in the room—“tonight is also this young lady’s Chicago debut. So please, give a very warm welcome to Miss Gloria Carson.”

Gloria emerged through a curtain at stage left. When she stepped into the light, the entire room seemed to breathe a collective sigh of awe. Perhaps it was the novelty of seeing a young white girl amid an all-black band. Or perhaps it was because she was radiant, like a shimmering mermaid who’d just emerged from the water. Her green dress hugged her curves and made the red waves of her hair look fiery. She held herself with a sophisticated poise and grace that Clara had never before seen her display—she commanded the stage, and she hadn’t even opened her mouth yet. When had she learned to do
that?

The piano began its introduction, and the rest of the band joined in on the fourth measure. And then Gloria opened her lips and took over the room.

Gloria’s voice fit her image perfectly—it was sultry, with glimmers of soulfulness and deep hints of sadness. She began singing in a way that was almost conversational, but then plunged into her lower registers. As the song explained how a man had broken her heart beyond repair, she gradually took her voice even lower, to a throaty whisper, a smoky growl.