Vixen (34 page)

And she was laughing, too.

Maybe it was her easy glide across the ice, or the biting chill of the air against her face, or the soothing warmth of his hand in hers—but suddenly, her mind emptied until it was as smooth and placid as the ice beneath her feet. She felt the way she had in those first few uninterrupted moments on the Green Mill stage: blissful and full of something that felt like promise.

Then it began to snow.

Tentatively at first, a few soft flakes from the whitewashed sky. The skaters all stopped, wherever they were and whoever they were with, and just looked up. Palms extended, eyes filled with wonder, childish squeals of delight. In that holy moment, Gloria experienced the same joy as everyone around her.

By the time they’d circled the pond a few more times, the snowflakes had become the first hint of a snowstorm. The first of winter, earlier than usual this year. It wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet.

Gloria and Jerome tumbled off the ice, out of breath and laughing as though nothing in life had ever been more fun. They crashed onto the nearest bench and leaned against each other in exhaustion.

Snowflakes caught like crystals in Jerome’s long black lashes. Gloria impulsively kissed his eyelids, the wintry flakes melting in her mouth.

“You shouldn’t do that in public,” he said, looking around
to see if anyone had noticed. “What did you go and do that for?”

Gloria shrugged. “For my hot date.” He crouched in front of her and began unlacing her skates. “You know what they say about the first snow?”

“Hmmmm … a cue to migrate south for the winter?”

“If only.”

“Why, you don’t like it here?”

“That’s one off,” he said, moving to her other skate. “This town is a part of me, whether I like it or not. My family is here, jazz is here. But I’ve got a traveler’s blood pumping in my veins—I’m ready to shake things up somewhere else, like—”

“New York?”

“Yes!” he said, seeming surprised by Gloria’s suggestion. “That’s exactly where I had in mind. What made you say that?”

“I didn’t think you meant Cuba. Though now”—she shivered—“even that doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.” She paused for a moment. “But couldn’t you just see us in New York?”

“Us?”

She didn’t know what she had meant by it, only that she liked the way it sounded.
Us
. “Can’t you see it?” she asked. “Taking our act to a brand-new city? To Greenwich Village, or Harlem, even—we would be the talk of the town. J.J.’s Jazz Band, featuring Gloria Rose.”

“I like the way it sounds.”

“And with nobody to hold us back—no parents, no Green Mill mobsters, no catty former best friends, no—”

“Fiancés?”

It hung in the air like a dirty word. “Don’t talk about him—I don’t want to ruin this perfect date.”

“Perfect?” he said. “You’re telling me, Miss Gloria Rose, that
this
is your perfect date?”

“Yes,” Gloria said. “That’s precisely what I’m telling you.”

“I know a way to make it even more perfect.” He raised himself up. “How ’bout some hot cocoa?”

“Now you’re speaking my language,” she said.

He led her to a small shack next to the ice-skate rental that sold coffee and hot cocoa for two cents a cup. As they stepped up into the line, the girl working the stand looked startled.

“Well, look who decides to show up.” She appeared to be about Gloria’s age, with bewitching almond-shaped eyes that glistened beneath a black knit cap. She was wrapped in a battered black peacoat.

“Max.” Jerome shifted his weight and dropped Gloria’s hand. “How are you?”

“That question’s coming a little too late, don’t you think?” she said. “Would have been nice if you’d asked it a month ago.”

“I’ve been real busy—”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Her gaze shifted sharply to Gloria. “Too busy playing with little rich white girls?”

“Careful, Max. Don’t talk about things you know nothing about.”

“You’re right, I know nothing but what I heard—about some redhead shacking up at your apartment last week. At night.” She cut her eyes at Gloria. “Must have been total make-believe.”

“We came here for a hot drink, not for your icy tongue.” His voice had dropped at least an octave.

“I’m sorry, but read the sign: We only serve hot cocoa and coffee.
Dark
drinks.
Black
drinks.”

Dumbfounded, Gloria stared at the girl. She had asked for “real” and she’d gotten it, hadn’t she? She wasn’t welcome here; she and Jerome weren’t welcome anywhere. And this was nothing but some stupid girl selling hot chocolate.

“It’s fine,” Gloria said. “I’m not even thirsty—”

“No, it is
not
fine!” Jerome threw a nickel onto the counter, rage glistening in his eyes. “You will serve us two hot cocoas, just like you’ve been serving everyone else.” Max was about to respond when Jerome placed an arm defiantly around Gloria’s shoulder. “Now.”

Max clucked her tongue but placed two cups of cocoa on the counter. She made a small gesture of presentation with her gloved hands. “I hope it’s to your liking,” she said smugly to Gloria. “Enjoy it while it lasts, honey.”

Jerome took their cups and they headed back toward the street in silence. It was dark now, and the snow was still lightly falling. Except for the distant squeals of the remaining
skaters and the occasional passing car, an eerie quiet had settled over the frozen city. Jerome handed her one paper cup.

“I don’t even want this anymore,” she said.

“That girl, she’s a friend of my sister’s,” he began apologetically. “I don’t want you to think she was anything—”

“You don’t have to explain. I don’t even want to know.” And really, she didn’t. She’d never actually considered the other women in Jerome’s life. Surely there had been many; he was surrounded by throngs of them at the Green Mill every night. But who was she to talk? She had a diamond burning a hole in her purse—

The engagement party! She had completely forgotten! She could not be late, under any circumstances. It was 5:15. If she hopped into a taxi now, she could be home by 5:35, in the shower by 5:45, hair dried by 6:15, dressed by—

“Come here.” Jerome tugged her by her coat sleeve into an alley off the street, then looked carefully around to make sure they were alone.

He kissed her softly. “You know, I never told you what they say about the first snow,” he said. “Whoever you’re with during that first snow of winter will be the person who will change your life in the year to come.”

She laughed. “You made that up.”

“Hey, Red, where’s your faith?”

They left the alley and went to the corner, and he hailed a taxi for her. He took the paper cup she was still holding from her hand. “Now, go enjoy your party,” he said softly.

As the taxi drove off, she watched him through the window. He poured their drinks onto the ground, turning the snow the color of cocoa, before walking away.

“I
can’t
do this.”

Gloria slumped on the edge of the bathtub, wrapped in a peach-colored towel, her hair dripping water down her back. A half hour before the party and she had made no move to get dressed. “I don’t have a fake smile left in me.”

“Take a deep breath,” Clara said, inhaling dramatically to demonstrate. She had been reading aloud the list of all the reporters expected to be in attendance. Now she folded it up and tossed it on the marble vanity. “I won’t attempt to fix your feelings, but the least I can do is fix your appearance. Don’t move an inch!”

“Where would I go?” Gloria mumbled as Clara whizzed out of the room.

Gloria had been doing just fine until she’d begun to shave her legs in the shower. She’d spotted a ripe bruise blooming on her knee—right where she had fallen on the ice with Jerome—and her mind had gone back to the afternoon. Bastian would
never
have taken her ice-skating.

Sopping wet, Gloria dragged herself out of the bathroom and belly-flopped onto her bed.

“Up! Up! Up!” Clara clapped her hands briskly as she
reentered the room and quickly shut the door. “Didn’t I say not to move?” She climbed onto the bed and jumped up and down.

“I get the point!” Gloria forced herself to sit up.

“I brought the goods; all you need to do is sit still and do what I say.” Clara waved a flask under Gloria’s nose. “You need a dose of medicine.”

Gloria seized the flask, turning it over in admiration. It was brushed gold, with a butterfly engraved across the front;
C & H
was etched on the stopper. “Where did you get this?” she asked, unscrewing the top and sniffing the contents.

Clara made a
tut-tut
sound. “No time for asking questions, only time for following orders. Now, drink up.”

Gloria did as she was told. It felt as if her esophagus had been swiped with the lighted end of a cigarette. “Are you trying to poison me?” she demanded, coughing. “What the hell is this?”

“The Green Fairy.” Clara sniffed at the flask herself. “Though why they call it green when it tastes like black licorice, I have no idea.”

“Are you speaking English?”

“Absinthe, my dear.” Clara repositioned Gloria at the edge of the bed.

Gloria could feel the alcohol spreading through her, making her feel loose-limbed and calm. She could almost feel it in her fingertips. “I can’t be owled in front of those reporters!”

“Would you rather they see you in the charming state you’re in now?”

“Point taken.” Gloria swigged another mouthful.

Clara set a small black leather valise on the bed and unlocked the brass clasps. Inside was a veritable cosmetics shop: powder tins, lipstick tubes, rouge pots, foundation jars, rows of pencils and brushes.

Gloria blinked. “Are you starting a stage career?”

Clara laughed. “This family is only big enough for one showgirl. Now close your eyes.” She unscrewed a jar of milkweed cream and rubbed it onto Gloria’s cheeks.

“This stuff smells vile.”

“The things we do for beauty,” Clara said, dabbing and blending concealer under Gloria’s eyes and around her nose. “Can I ask you something?” Gloria said.

“As your makeup artist, or as your life advisor?”

“As my cousin.”

“Now, that’s a hat I haven’t worn in a while.” Clara dipped a puff into translucent powder and blew on it, filling the air between them with a chalky cloud.

“What about for Marcus?” Gloria asked curiously. “What hat do you wear for him?”

“I thought we were talking about
you
right now.”

“We are, in a roundabout way,” Gloria said, spotting the eyelash brush that was nearing her face. “And please don’t poke my eye out with that thing.”

“I’ll tell you why I like Marcus.” Clara stroked black
mascara over Gloria’s pale lashes. “With Marcus, I feel I can be the girl I
want
to be. Not
was
in the past, or
should
be, or whatever …”

“Are we talking about Marcus Eastman here?” Gloria felt the exact same way when she was with Jerome, but that didn’t change the impossible circumstances.

Clara dragged Gloria to her feet. “Come on, let’s get you dressed,” she said, leading Gloria behind the Oriental dressing screen and lowering Gloria’s dress over the edge like a descending curtain.

It was the most extraordinary dress Gloria had ever seen. A sheer champagne netting flowed over intricately woven gold silk, with a metallic chiffon sash at the dropped waist that tied in a bow at the hip. The skirt was a billowing waterfall of chiffon, ending at her ankles. The dress was elegant but still true to the flapper’s look-at-me appeal—although Gloria had to admit she hadn’t felt like a flapper since her last night at the Green Mill.

“So I’ve been thinking about your difficult situation,” Clara began. “Listen, love is a roll of the dice, just like anything else. And sometimes, love alone is not enough to sustain a life together—in the same way that money or status alone is not enough. Look at Bastian. Look at your parents! Money and status have done nothing for them but tear them apart.”

Gloria poked her head around the screen, the dress halfway on. “So you’re saying I lose either way?” Clara’s eyes now looked as stormy as Gloria felt. “Are you all right?”

“I told you: No time for questions!” Clara shooed her back behind the screen. “Except for one, and I get to ask it: Who will ultimately make you happiest?”

Gloria emerged once again, fully dressed this time, and Clara gasped. “Oh, Gloria!”

“You like it?”

Gloria was about to dash over to the pier glass in the corner of her room, but Clara stopped her. “Don’t look yet! We need to fix your hair first.” Gloria followed her into the bathroom.

She thought about Bastian, and she thought about Jerome. This whole question of love versus duty suddenly seemed ridiculous. It wasn’t that simple. Was love “right”? Was duty “right”? She looked at her nails and knew her answer. In the end, duty didn’t stand a chance. The love she felt for Jerome—and
yes
, it was love, why pretend it was anything else?—defied everything she had been taught to think or feel or do. A future with Bastian would be unbearable.

Clara massaged some pomade into her bob. Then she spun Gloria around and stepped aside. “Now would you take a look at yourself?”