It Had to be You Page 11

  The sisters whoop their delight. Deciding to take that as my cue to cut my losses before I’m caught eavesdropping, I pull my head back behind the wall where the hallways intersect. Feeling more grounded even though I didn’t get to talk to Lena, I head back to my office.

  Barely have I traveled more than a couple of steps, however, when I hear Clara say, “Well, let’s go see ‘em. We’ll have to decide which one you wear one tonight when we go out dancing.”

  I stop dead. Lena’s going dancing? In one of the dresses I provided? My jaw gets so tight my teeth hurt.

  “Oh, I doubt Booker would like me wearing one of the new gowns to another speakeasy! He bought them to enhance his club, after all.”

  “That’s my girl,” I murmur under my breath.

  “He gave them to you, didn’t he?” Clara demands.

  “Well...yeah.”

  “Then it seems to me they’re yours to wear wherever you wanna. You said it was in your contract.”

  Huh? I retrace my steps to look around the corner again. There wasn’t anything in the contract about—

  “Oh, not the wearing them part,” Clara clarifies as if she’d read my mind and makes an erasing gesture with her right hand. “I’m talking about Mr. Jameson providing them in return for you upping the sales here. That pretty much makes it a straight-up barter in my book. Which, in turn, makes them yours to do with whatever you want.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Dot chimes in. “I vote for you wearing something not quite so glam. We’re goin’ to a club that draws a lot of the officers and pilots from the new Naval Air Station at Sand Point. My plan is for me to wow them. Your attention-grabbin’ bubbies can steal my thunder at the best of times.” She pokes Lena’s left breast. “I certainly don’t need them all decked out in a slinky dress on top of it.”

  Oh, hell, no! Damned if I’ll allow Lena to surround herself with a bunch of fly boys.

  I wince. Because allow might not be the word I want to use—at least not to her face. Pulling back into my own corridor again, I thunk my head against the wall. Slow and measured, once, twice, three times I tap my forehead against it. What else is a fella to do? I sure as hell can’t think of a single good outcome should Lena ever hear me linking that word to her.

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” Lena says and I strain to hear, because it sounds as if they’re walking away.

  But that doesn’t make sense. Lena’s room is closer to this end of the hallway than the sisters’ is. Then I shrug. For all I know they just decided to lower their voices for privacy. And the bottom line is: I want to hear. Stiff-arming myself away from the wall, I step back to the edge of the intersection again.

  “I invited Will to join us,” Lena is saying. “Trust me when I tell you the big palooka is worse than an older brother when it comes to men throwing lines my way. Still, he’ll drive! He said he’ll meet us out front. I’m guessing we’ll go out together, but if for some reason we don’t, look for an old black Ford. And, please. My breasts aren’t that attention grabbing.”

  I snort and hear Dot say, “Yeah, they pretty much are. They might not be in fashion, but men just love the bejebers out of bubs like yours.”

  Hard to argue with that. I can’t say I’m happy at the thought of other men admiring Lena’s breasts, though. Even if I kind of counted on their appeal when we were arranging her gowns with Alice. But that was for impact from the stage, not up close.

  Up close those beauties are off limits.

  Just before I hear a door close, I hear and the muted murmur of voices and realize the women must have gone into Lena’s dressing room. I hear a muffled, “Oh, my Gawd!” in thrilled tones. Laughing out loud, I head back to my office. I need to find out what club Dot was talking about.

  Because, if Will’s going to be there with Lena, I damn well plan on showing up, as well.

  17

  Susan Andersen

  You did good, kid

  LENA, later that evening

  Lord above, it’s been almost a half an hour since I finished my last set and I swear I can still feel the blood hissing through my veins like so many champagne bubbles. I’ve been practically beside myself with exhilaration ever since I left the stage. It added an extra little swing to my hips that still has me darn near strutting.

  I can’t honestly claim I’m shocked by my excitement. Tonight has been so much fun. For my performances, I picked the tan and black, form-fitting, low backed gown to wear. And if sliding into that hadn’t been breath-stealing enough on its own, I also wore all the accessories Frederick and Nelson’s Alice had selected to go with it: the long black gloves—one topped with a beautiful Eisenberg crystal bracelet—and the stunning little jet-beaded headband with a woman-of-mystery cheekbone skimming veil and a poof of black and gold feathers fastened to the side by a silver dollar-sized jet studded button.

  Even more thrilling than the glamorous beyond belief clothing, however, was debuting the blues number Booker agreed I could sing my way as my final song of the night.

  And. Oh. My. Gosh! We brought down the house. When my very last note trailed into silence and the audience erupted in applause and cheers, I automatically turned to Henry to see what he thought. He’d been so fabulous about Booker siding with me, but I’ve run into men before who give lip service one moment, only to turn around and simmer in their resentment the next.

  I should have known Henry would be a class act all the way. He gave me a big, toothy grin and two enthusiastic thumbs up. Seeing it, I impulsively covered the short space separating us to give him a hard hug.

  “You did good, kid,” he growled in my ear as he hugged me back. And if that wasn’t enough, he caught up with me while I was making my way back to the dressing room and presented me with what he said was a standard bottle of champagne.

  I’m on my way to my dressing room when I see Booker headed my way. He’s carrying a bouquet of flowers and walking fast in big, ground-eating strides. I’m just stepping to the side to keep from being bowled over when he reaches out and swoops me up in his arms and spins us around.

  And oh, God. His heat surrounds me and I can smell the starch in his tuxedo shirt. Can smell his skin. Lord have mercy, of all the things I remember about Booker, the scent of his skin tops my list of the never, ever forgotten. It’s a healthy, vital male scent that is his alone.

  “Did you hear that audience, Lena?” he demands, tucking his chin in to grin down at me. “I thought they were going to rattle the damn ceiling loose! And Elsie tells me she won’t know for sure until she develops her photos, but she’s ninety-nine percent confident she got some fabulous shots while you were singing your last song!”

  He slows the spin and slides his arm out from under my thighs to set me on my feet. “These are for you,” he says and hands me the flowers. “I knew that song sung your way was going to send the crowd out there into a frenzy.” Then he gives me a slap on my rear, making me jump and let loose an embarrassing squeak that hits high C. “Best thing Leo ever did, hiring you!” he declares, and strides off laughing.

  I rub my bottom and blink at his retreating back until he’s gone from sight. Goodness gracious Agnes! I’m not quite certain how I feel about that encounter.

  I laugh out loud. Okay, I know exactly how I feel. My heart is pounding, my mouth is dry, and yet I have a big smile on my face. Because I feel like I just caught a glimpse of, had a moment with, the old Booker. Everything from sweeping me up, to his laugh, to the bottom slap was exactly the fun, spontaneous Booker I knew before the war. And I can’t deny it, it feels good.

  Oh, my gosh, oh, my golly! This has been one of the best nights of my life, the ab-so-loot berries.

  And I have a feeling our after-hours night out will be just as good.

  18

  susan andersen

  Long time Joe, whataya know?

  BOOKER

  Feeling like a million bucks, I leave Leo to count the day’s take for me. I shed my tuxedo jacket and cummerbund,
change out my shirt for a slightly less formal model and put on a set of braces to make me look less like a swell out slumming. I don my cashmere fedora and overcoat, then head out a few minutes early, hoping to beat the girls. Keeping my eyes on the exit, I move through the club. I am giving no one the opportunity to stop me. A minute later, I’m through the door.

  “Evening Mr. Jameson.”

  I tip my hat at the doorman and give him a nod. “Good evening to you, Benson.” I stride out to the sidewalk. Stopping at the curb beneath the canopy, I look up and down both sides of the street. The problem isn’t spotting an old black Ford, I discover. The problem is too damn many of them.

  I turn back to Benson. “You happen to see a man in an old black Ford park nearby sometime in the last five or ten minutes?”

  “I saw Miss Baker’s friend Will. He couldn’t find a place in front so he walked back and asked me to tell her he will be up on the next block—” Benson tips his head to the north “—on the other side of the street.”

  “That’s who I’m looking for,” I say. “Thanks, Benson.” I head in that direction.

  There really is a heap of black Fords, and once I reach the next block and cross to the other side I find myself bending to peer in the windows of each one I come across. Finally spotting Will, I walk over and open the front passenger door.

  “Hey,” I say, bending down to look at him. “How’s tricks?”

  Shit. I barely stop myself from grimacing. But, really, how’s tricks? Not exactly my usual vocabulary. Except for a few of the less ridiculous words, I have never been much on slang.

  He looks back, clearly surprised to see me standing there. He merely says, “Long time Joe, whataya know?” however, and flashes me a crooked smile that is long on irony. I would put money down Will isn’t a big slang slinger, himself.

  “What are you doing here?” he demands.

  “I hear we’re going dancing.”

  He maintains level, unblinking eye contact. “That’s odd, the girls never mentioned you were coming.”

  “Uh, yeah. That’s kind of the tricky part. They didn’t know.”

  Will quirks a brow at me, and when I don’t respond immediately taps a smooth jazz rhythm out on his steering wheel as if he has all night and halfway into next week to wait for me to supply more information than what I’ve given him so far.

  I shrug, feeling a bit sheepish, and climb in the car, shutting the door behind me. “I might have overheard them discussing it at the club earlier.” I give my shoulders an impatient roll. I have never liked having to explain myself. But I guess if I invite myself along I can’t expect the actual invited guests to just clap their hands and shout Yay! “When I heard you were coming with the girls, I figured my invitation must have got lost in the mail.”

  Hearing the words come out of my mouth, I frown and mutter, “God knows there’s been a lot of that going around.”

  He grins suddenly, looking so much like the boy I grew up with it causes a funny thump in my chest, as if someone reached out of the blue to give it a light rap with the side of his fist.

  “What the hell,” Will says. “As long as you’re here anyway, you might as well come along. The more the merrier and all that shit.” Then he levels a finger at me. “But Lena rides shotgun. You get to share the backseat with the Brasher sisters.” And he laughs like an asylum escapee.

  I don’t. Because Dot and Clara are the farthest thing from shy I can imagine. And the thought of being cooped up in a small backseat with them off the clock?

  God help us all.

  19

  susan andersen

  Look at all these flyboys!

  LENA

  Mr. Benson hails Clara, Dot, and me when we push through the front door and explains Will’s difficulty finding parking out front. He tells us where Will is waiting for us and, linking arms, the three of us set out up the block. We are laughing uproariously over a slightly blue joke Dot heard from Sally when I spot Will’s car. “There he is!”

  We run the final steps and I haul open the passenger side door, climb in and greet Will. Dot and Clara clamber into the back.

  “Well, hel-lo there, Mr. Jameson!” one of them exclaims.

  I freeze. What? Clutching the champagne bottle Henry gifted me to my chest, I swivel in my seat.

  And see Booker sitting, larger than life, next to the door behind Will. “What the heck are you doing here?” My heart is kicking up a storm and once again my mouth goes dry.

  Booker, as usual, is cool as can be. But he gives me a grin that does wicked things to my heart rate. “Going dancing, rumor has it.”

  “He ran into me,” Will says, giving me a little shrug. Then he lowers his voice so only I can hear beneath Dot’s sudden peal of laughter. “Do you mind too much?” he asks softly. “I’ll get rid of him if you do.”

  I’m tempted. So, so tempted. And yet—

  The way Booker laughed backstage earlier keeps playing in my mind. And the smile on his face just now made me want to smile back. Plus, he has done an awful lot for me lately. It seems small to repay him by saying he can’t go with us to a bar.

  Then there’s the matter of that generous check made out to a local Orphanage currently sitting on my dressing table back at the club.

  I just found out about it before my first set this evening, when I was about to take the box my dresses came in to one of the stage crew for disposal. The check and an accompanying note were in an envelope in the box, but I didn’t see it until I swept up the tissue paper and the envelope fell out of one of its folds. According to the note, Frederick and Nelson’s cleaning crew found the check beneath the chair Booker sat in outside my dressing room the day we went to the department store for the first fittings. They took it to a supervisor who eventually tracked down Alice, who saw to its return. And honestly?

  I would really, really like to know the story behind Booker supporting an orphanage. But it’s back at the club and this isn’t exactly the place to—

  Wait a minute.

  It’s not at the club, at all. As I was closing the door before going to meet Clara and Dot, I began second guessing myself over leaving such a generous check in an unlocked dressing room, sitting out for anybody to find. I shoved it into my purse to give to Booker the next time I saw him.

  Well, here he is and here I am. I open my purse to do just that—to pass it back to Booker—but then stop. This really doesn’t seem like the best time to hand it over, surrounded as we are by Will and the Brasher girls. Booker might not appreciate everyone knowing his business.

  Which recalls me back to the present and Will’s offer. “No,” I reply in the same low tone he used. “This has been such a great night. I don’t want to ruin it with bickering.”

  So, here I am, moments later, zooming along Highway 99 at forty miles an hour in Will’s old Ford, on our way to Swannee Don’s Speakeasy up in the University district. With not only he and my two bosom pals, but Booker, too, of all people. I look down at my lap.

  And smile, assuring myself it’s because of my stunning outfit.

  I can almost believe that’s my only reason. After all of my protestations to Clara about not using the dresses Booker supplied for anything other than work, I ended up wearing one tonight. I selected the short, beaded “dance-dress”. It is a beauty, crafted from a yellow under-sheath cut straight across the tops of my breasts and topped with a black sleeveless dress of small-patterned, V-necked chiffon. Alternating bottom panels swirl out when I spin and are outlined with ribbons of metallic gold beading. The points of the Vs that end at the hem frame small-pattern fabric that matches the rest of the over-dress. But where they come to a point around hip height, the fabric is heavily embroidered in patterns of gold beading and sequins. Even with the fancy embellishments, however, this dress is less formal than the others that Booker—I mean, my contribution to the business!—bought me.

  I had planned on changing into one of my old dresses. But every time I’d tried to figure out what I s
hould wear for our after-show jaunt, my conversation with Dot the day I bought my beautiful new cloche popped up to haunt me. Because she was right. My wardrobe is nothing to write home about (pretending for a moment one has a home for that). And when I truly give the matter the tiniest bit of thought, I had likely been long overdue to make changes to the contents of my closet a good two or three years ago.

  I intend to correct that. Even if it means breaking into my lovely little savings.

  I don’t want to go out anymore in the tired old clothes I’ve been wearing for ages. In fact, as soon as I can scratch up an hour or two, I’m going to grab Dot and Clara to help me buy one of those pretty every day, flower-print chiffon dresses.

  Who knows? Maybe I’ll even go hog-wild and buy two. But in the meantime—

  Swinging around in the front seat to look at Clara and Dot in the back while carefully avoiding looking at Booker, I heft up the champagne bottle. “Say, do either of you know how to get the cork from the bottle without shooting out Will’s windshield?”

  “Not me,” Dot says regretfully and Clara agrees champagne cork removal isn’t one of her skills, either.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Booker just opening his mouth when Will suddenly swerves over to the curb, making me grab with my free hand for the back of the seat. He takes the car out of gear and sets the brake. “Hand it over.” He pulls a pristine handkerchief from his pocket.

  I thought he would roll down his window and shoot the cork out the opening, Instead, he does something with the wire cage thing covering the cork and removes it. He then wraps his hanky around the cork and the foiled neck of the bottle and uses his thumbs to make short work of removing the cork with a soft pop. Some of the champagne foams and fizzes up through the mouth of the bottle and, laughing, Will drinks the overflow. Then he hands the bottle to me.