Bright Young Things (28 page)

Wincing, he managed to push himself up enough so that she could roll over, and then, wedging herself under his shoulder, she helped lift him upright. They walked like that together to the car. He was young, and he wore a white cotton undershirt tucked into brown pants that his black boots laced over. He was not much taller than she was, and though he was slender, there was a compact strength to every inch of him.

“Are you all right?” she asked, as they hobbled forward.

“Fine.” His voice was deep and calm—almost perversely, considering the smoke now blowing over them and the fall from the sky he must have just experienced. “I hope you don‧t drive like a woman,” he said as she helped him into the front seat.

“I beg your pardon?” She was almost too shocked by his lack of gratitude to fully respond to what he‧d said.

But he only stared back at her, with wide-set, pale blue eyes that were somehow out of place against his sun-darkened olive skin. His hair was deep brown and cut close to his scalp, and he had full, unsmiling lips. She blinked and slammed the passenger-side door, and then didn‧t look at him again until they were headed toward the road and she heard the explosion behind them.

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

The calm drained briefly from his face, and it seemed as though something might actually have hurt him. But he only asked her if she knew where the hospital was.

“No,” she answered truthfully, and though she felt she ought to be insulted by his terse manner, she was mostly awed by the coolness he maintained despite the pain that his bruised and broken body was surely causing him. If she‧d had that kind of toughness, she thought, she could have taken care of Thom Hale, or better yet, not fallen prey to his advances in the first place. “Do you?”

“Where are we?”

“Nashitogue.” They were racing down a road between two farms now. “I think so, anyway.”

“Good.” He tried to adjust his leg, which was obviously badly wounded. “Take this road all the way down, and then a left at Willow Lane. That will bring us to the Catholic Hospital in Rye Haven. You can drop me there.”

Her body felt almost weightless with adrenaline, and both their breathing was audible as they hurtled through the darkness. It must have been very late, and though she supposed she might have asked him what he was doing up in the air in the middle of the night, she never did. There was only an ever-lightening sky and the thought of getting the stranger to a place where they would declare him okay.

Cordelia brought the Marmon to a shrieking halt in front of a stern, redbrick building with yellow light pooling from the high windows, and came around to help him out. The lobby was deserted, and so for a minute or two they stood alone in the plain white hall. Just as she was about to ask him what he thought they ought to do, a nun in a black habit came walking down the hall, and then several more appeared from other directions.

“Oh, dear,” said the first.

“Is it really him?” asked another.

“I‧ve had an accident,” he said in that plain, clear voice. Turning toward Cordelia, he said, “By the way—you don‧t drive like a woman.”

“Thank you,” she replied with a raised eyebrow, “although I‧m not sure that‧s a compliment. And anyway, shouldn‧t you be thanking me?”

“Yes,” he said, and smiled. His face, so symmetrical with its big, serious features, had not previously seemed capable of smiling. But in that moment she realized how false most smiles were, and what a tremendous waste of time. His was rare and incomparable, and she was glad that he had been gruff before and saved that happy expression for now, so that she could truly appreciate it. “Thank you.”

“It was nothing,” she answered lightly.

“On the contrary; I could have died.” The nurses flocked around him and were excitedly talking among themselves and calling out to others down the hall. Someone produced a wheelchair and urged him off Cordelia‧s shoulder and down into it. “I will make it up to you, I promise.”

He reached out for her hand. She was surprised by how reassuring it was to feel a human palm against her own, and took in a sudden breath.

“What‧s your name?”

“Cordelia Grey,” she said. She wanted to know his, but she paused too long, lingering in the curious glow of that simple touch, and by the time she realized that she ought to ask, he was being wheeled away. Then she glanced down and realized how ridiculous she looked—she was barefoot and wearing a dress that wasn‧t good for anything except drinking and dancing in, and her hair was falling down over her shoulders, and she no doubt had black makeup smudged around her eyes.

“Are you all right, dear?” one of the younger nuns asked.

“Oh—yes. It was him that was in the accident.”

“Ah.” The young nun crossed herself. “Thank
God,
he didn‧t die.”

“Do you know him?” Cordelia asked.

The young woman giggled, and then realized she wasn‧t joking. “Of course! That‧s Max Darby, the famous pilot.”

“Oh!” Cordelia started. Her head dropped back, and she heard herself laugh. “Of course it is!”

“Well, what do you mean, of course? He‧s a very good pilot; he‧s never had a crash!”

“Oh, yes, I‧m sure he is. Only—he‧s been following me, I think, without knowing it.”

The young woman let out a dreamy sigh and said, “Lucky you. He‧s an
angel”

“Yes.” Cordelia turned to leave that cold, hygienic light. “I guess he is.”

The fear and urgency that had driven Cordelia to that field had dissipated by the time she settled back into the car. It seemed a long time ago that she had pointed a gun toward Thom Hale‧s head, and longer still that she had wanted him so badly, she‧d thought of giving up everything. Dawn was already brightening the sky, but she did not feel tired. The last bedroom she‧d called her own was in a house full of bootleggers who probably had little interest in her survival anymore. But she wasn‧t afraid. By chance, she had been handed a finer sense of her powers. Her life had taken a wonderful turn, and then an awful one, but there would be a great deal more of it yet. She started the engine and turned the car in the direction she was always heading for—toward White Cove.

“They‧re waiting for you in the library,” said Anthony, the night guard, when Cordelia pulled up to the gates of Dogwood.

In fact, they met her on the front steps. Charlie and Astrid were both still wearing their black funeral clothes and carrying a woolen blanket, which they wrapped around Cordelia‧s shoulders.

For a moment she could do nothing but glance from one to the other.

Charlie put an arm around her, squeezing her shoulder with his big palm. “We‧ll get ‘em, don‧t worry.”

Astrid stepped forward and took Cordelia‧s face in her hands. “You look like hell, darling. But we‧ll make you all better tomorrow.”

“I can stay here, really?” Cordelia said.

“‘Course.” Charlie managed to give her something like a smile. “Dad would kill me if I didn‧t look after you.”

“Can I go to bed now, then?” she asked. “I‧ve never been so tired.”

“Yes, but—”

“There‧s someone here for you,” Astrid finished his sentence. “In your bedroom.”

Cordelia pulled the woolen blanket around her shoulders as she climbed the stairs. Her legs ached, and it took her longer than usual to rise to the third floor. By the time she entered her room, her lids were heavy, and she had almost forgotten there was a guest.

But then she opened the door and saw Letty sitting on one of the stuffed white sofas by the window. She appeared more petite than Cordelia remembered, in the old black dress, with her slick dark hair framing her tiny white face. One of her eyes was swollen and bruised, and there was a rather scrawny greyhound lying at her feet. She appeared fragile and exhausted.

“What happened to you?” Cordelia asked.

For a moment Letty didn‧t reply, and Cordelia remembered that the last time they had seen each other, they had been angry. But then the younger girl giggled and said, “What happened to
you?”

Turning, Cordelia caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and laughed outright. “I guess neither of us are at our best,” she said after a while. “Do you hate me?”

Letty lowered her eyes and shook her head. “No.”

“Are you going to stay awhile?”

Letty lifted her head, and her blue eyes rose under the line of black bangs. “I don‧t have anywhere else to go,” she said. Perhaps she feared that sounded insufficiently grateful, because she quickly added, “I mean, I‧d love to, if that‧s all right with you.”

Cordelia smiled and went over to her friend, sinking down on the carpet beside her and laying her head on the other girl‧s lap. The white curtains fluttered open, and she could see a mandarin light just beginning to shine through the tops of the trees. There were many things she wanted to say to Letty, but she wasn‧t sure she had the energy, and anyway there was lots of time. They had traveled a great distance, and now they knew what a big city was, and they were both worn down. But all that could be discussed tomorrow. Tonight they‧d sleep well, at Dogwood, whatever that meant.

It means home,
she thought, and closed her eyes.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am so incredibly grateful to have such good friends and editors in Sara Shandler and Farrin Jacobs, without whom this book would have been a sad shadow of itself. I owe many, many thanks to Joelle Hobeika, Josh Bank, Les Morgenstein, Elise Howard, Kari Sutherland, Kristin Marang, Cristina Gilbert, Melissa Bruno, Sasha Illingworth, Beth Clark, Liz Dresner, Andrea C. Uva, KB Mello, Melinda Weigel, and Laura Lutz. And a giant thank-you also to Ryan Shawhughes and family for lending me a desk with a view on Long Island to write at.

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Copyright

Excerpt from “Echoes of the Jazz Age” from a compilation of works by F. Scott Fitzgerald entitled
The Crack-Up
; compiled and edited by Edmund Wilson and published by New Directions Books/New Directions Publishing Corporation (1945, 1956, 1993, and 2009). The following copyright notices are listed in this compilation: Copyright 1931 by Charles Scribner‧s Sons; Copyright 1933 by Editorial Publications, Inc.; Copyright 1934, 1936 by Esquire, Inc.; Copyright 1937 by Pocket Book Publishing Co. (renewed © 1964 by Frances Scott Fitzgerald Lanahan); Copyright 1945 by New Directions Publishing Corporation; Copyright
1945 by Elena Wilson.

Bright Young Things

Copyright © 2010 by Anna Godbersen

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