Vixen (8 page)

“I’m sorry, I thought you were—”

“Your dream come true?” He grinned widely, showing off his dazzlingly white teeth.

“Absolutely … 
not!
” Clara said. Immediately, she knew this boy was Bad News. He might have been good-looking—all right, he was
insanely
good-looking—but he was the type of guy who knew exactly how good-looking he was. There was nothing more unappealing than that. More importantly, she’d sworn off boys. They weren’t part of her new image.

She motioned toward the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

He walked closer to where she stood. “Wilt you leave me so unsatisfied?”

Clara took a giant step backward. Was he really quoting Shakespeare to her? “If you expect to impress me by misquoting
Romeo and Juliet
,” she said, “then you are sadly mistaken.”

“Shows how behind I am in my English homework.” The boy grinned wickedly and plopped down on the edge of her bed. He patted the empty place next to him. “I only wanted you to explain what you were doing in the hallway when I found you.”

“Oh,” Clara said, trying to look innocent—however that looked. He was leaning back, an easy grin on his face. Was he trying to seduce her? Her natural instinct was to pounce on him. But of course, that was out of the question. She remained standing, for her own sake.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping, if that is what you are insinuating.”

“I would never accuse you of such an immoral act.”

“Good,” she said, “because I would never think to commit one.”

The boy tugged her toward the bed. She resisted slightly at first, but then happily yielded. She quickly crossed her legs, which she assumed was the sort of thing they taught in the etiquette class she’d managed to skip in high school.

His hand was warm. “You’ve never been tempted to do an immoral thing?”

How she wanted to whisper into his ear what she wanted to do right then and there! Instead, she withdrew. “I think that is an outrageously inappropriate question to ask of a stranger.”

The boy examined her slyly. “You certainly are a strange one.
Clara.
”

Clara shot him a look of mock horror. “How did you know my name?”

“You’re Glo’s cousin.” He tilted his head. “I’m Marcus.”

Marcus. Lorraine and Gloria had been discussing a Marcus … and some kind of plan.

“I’ve heard all about you,” Marcus said.

“Oh? Good things or bad things?”

“I thought I knew, but now I’m not quite sure.” He stood up. “There is only one way to find out. Tonight, you’re coming with me. I’m taking you to the Green Mill, the—”

“The hottest speakeasy in town, I know!” Clara blurted out. She watched Marcus’s face twist in confusion: How would she, Country Clara, know about the Green Mill? “I mean, I’ve only heard rumors about it,” she said. “Very
bad
rumors.”

Marcus’s face softened. “So then it’s settled. You’ll meet me at midnight.”

“I don’t think that is a very sensible idea. I don’t know you. I can’t go somewhere with you alone.”

“We won’t be alone. Glo and Raine are coming, too,” he said with a laugh.

“Wait a second,” Clara said, genuinely shocked. “You mean to tell me that my cousin Gloria goes to places like the Green Mill?” She would never have pegged Gloria as someone who’d sneak out to a place like that—even in New York, the Green Mill was infamous. Rumor made it sound like a thrilling mixture of glamour and danger, run by young, good-looking gangsters.

“Not usually, but tonight we’re celebrating her bob.” He shrugged.

Clara began to put the pieces together. There was no chance Gloria would want her tagging along. If Marcus had truly “heard all about” her, surely he’d know that much. Which meant that Marcus’s invitation was the girls’ doing, some scheme they’d cooked up and fobbed off on him. Hadn’t Gloria said that in her bedroom—something about how Marcus was going to “take care” of her? Clara couldn’t
figure out his intentions quite yet, but one thing was for sure: There was much more to this pretty boy than met the eye.

“I assume Gloria’s fiancé is coming, too? I’m sure he wouldn’t want to miss out on the celebration.”

“Let’s just say,” Marcus said, looking in her vanity mirror and fixing his hair, “it’s an early bachelorette party. No grooms allowed.”

“Ah, I see,” Clara said. “Perhaps you’re better off if there are no cousins allowed, either.”

“Give me one reason why you shouldn’t go.”

“Give me one reason why I should,” Clara said. Even though she wanted to go, she had an act to keep up. Country Clara would never be seen at a speakeasy.

“Because I’ll be there,” he said. “And I’ve already squared this with Gloria. She really wants you to come. She even has a dress for you to wear.”

And then he stood, tipped an invisible hat, and walked out of her room, leaving a scent of shaving balm and promise in his wake.

The plan was that Clara would meet Gloria in her room at eleven p.m. sharp.

With five minutes to go, she made her final preparations: set her makeup with powder; threw lipstick, compact, and clove gum into her purse; double-checked her teeth. But this
familiar routine now seemed faked, the remnant of some distant universe she was no longer a part of.

The last time Clara had been to a speakeasy had been on her final night in New York. The city had been abuzz with the simmering heat of August. Clara was just finishing the last sip of her martini when the sirens began to wail. “This is a police raid! Nobody move an inch!” Within seconds, the music stopped and the lights came on, exposing a blind-drunk, screaming stampede.

Before she had a chance to react, someone shoved her through a trapdoor beneath the bar. Clara found herself crawling through a damp basement crowded with cartons of liquor and full of scurrying rats, until she reached a metal door that let out onto the sidewalk. The street was still and empty, not yet disturbed by the madhouse that roared below. She was free to run home.

Or she could hijack the police paddy wagon, which was parked at the corner with one door wide open and the key dangling in the ignition and not a copper in sight.

It was easy-peasy.

She jumped behind the wheel just as the police began to emerge from the Red Head, dragging out hordes of handcuffed flappers. There were switches on the dashboard. Finding the one marked
SIREN
, she flipped it on, then cranked the key in the ignition and stamped on the gas pedal. The wagon took off, rattling down East Fourth Street
at lightning speed, the back door banging open and closed as she swerved down the street. With no place to lock up their victims, the policemen took off after her, running down the street and blowing their whistles.

Clara just laughed and laughed and gave the wagon more gas.

She had never felt so free. She turned onto Fifth Avenue and flipped off the siren, watching the reflection of the wagon as she whooshed past the storefronts, then took a spin through Central Park, meandering past the reservoir, popping the siren on every now and then to see whom she could startle. She was coasting along Riverside Drive as the sun rose over the East Side. She found an empty intersection, parked the paddy wagon dead center, and removed the key from the ignition. She’d toss it in the Hudson when she got a chance.

It was foolish, of course, and totally reckless, but
damn
, it was exciting. She remembered wishing that life could be like that always, a wild-goose chase without a destination. A chase for the thrill of running.

Ultimately, the destination that early morning had been jail. She hadn’t seen the police car trailing her, and the coppers hadn’t listened to her protestations of innocence when they’d picked her up and thrown her into the backseat. She was holding the key to the paddy wagon, and that was as good as a smoking gun.

Her father arrived in New York the next day and threatened to disown her if she didn’t leave behind her “immoral lifestyle” and return home immediately.

Clara didn’t worry much about being disowned. But that night was the final straw. That and the boy. She had never quite recovered from him.

Of course, if her father had known about the boy, she would have been disowned already. Here, in Chicago, she was supposed to have a fresh start. Playing the Good Girl was finally becoming fun.
Especially
now that she was en route to the hottest speakeasy in Chicago.

Clara crept down the dark hallway to Gloria’s room and tapped on the door. Gloria opened it, her gold sequined dress pulled on halfway. She beckoned for Clara to come in and quietly closed the door behind them.

“I’m taking a big risk letting you come along with us,” Gloria said. “But Marcus for some reason thinks you can be trusted not to rat us out.”

“You have my word.” Clara turned an invisible key on her lips. And then raised her eyebrows. “But I’m not really sure we should be going to a speakeasy! Aren’t they just dens of sin?”

Gloria ignored her question. “My friend Lorraine was nice enough to bring these over for you to wear,” she said,
pointing to some clothes laid out on her bed. “Since I assumed you didn’t pack anything appropriate for the Green Mill.”

Clara picked up the peach chiffon dress, with its dropped waist ending in a layer of beaded pleats. When she held it up to herself in the mirror, she almost laughed: The hemline hit midcalf. Even her mother would find this dowdy.

Little did Gloria know that in New York, Clara’s clothes had been the fabric of legend. If Clara wore a new outfit on Saturday night, flappers would storm Madison Avenue the next day in search of it. One of her day jobs had been working as a fitting model for Bergdorf Goodman’s new ready-to-wear line. All irregular or damaged clothes—European or American—were hers to keep. Clara didn’t just set new trends, she set
chic
ones.

She had to think of this dress as a costume, she reminded herself. Even so, it was
so
1918. “This dress is so … 
beautiful.
”

“We figured you wouldn’t want to wear something that made you feel uncomfortable.”

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” Clara said carefully.

Gloria fumbled with the pearl buttons on the back of her dress. “Help me before you get dressed.”

“Isn’t this a little too tight?” Clara asked. “And too red?”

“Applesauce,” Gloria said.

“Let me know if I’m pinching you.” Gloria had a graceful figure, but it was moderately curvy, and the dress was
clearly made for a girl without a chest. “On the count of three, suck in as much as you can. One, two, three!”

Clara managed to button up the dress all the way. Gloria exhaled loudly and then darted toward her vanity. She shimmied in front of the mirror. “Oh, wow. I look—”

“Like the bee’s knees! As you crazy flappers like to say.” Why not start the night out on a positive note, Clara thought, so that she could casually get the dirt on Marcus? She picked the peach dress up off the bed and slipped it over her head. “So, what’s-his-name and Lorraine are meeting us there?” she asked.

“Yeah, at midnight on the street corner. We have to hurry.”

“So, are they
together
? Since you’re …”

“Since I’m
what
?” Gloria stopped applying her lipstick midstroke.

“Since you are
engaged
,” Clara said, walking over to Gloria’s chair, “Lorraine and Marcus have something going on. Is that right?”

“Raine is very single. As is Marcus. And they are most definitely
not
together.”

Clara fixed a smudge of kohl below her eye in the mirror over Gloria’s head. “So Bastian must be incredibly jealous of Marcus, then.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re going to a club in that sexy dress with a single man who is
not
him.” Clara picked up a pot of rouge,
which was lying right next to Gloria’s diamond engagement ring. “Oh”—Gloria met Clara’s eyes with a distant flicker of guilt—“so Bastian doesn’t
know
you’re going tonight, does he?”

“Men don’t need to know everything,” Gloria said, slipping the ring into a drawer.

Clara frowned. “It’s not healthy to keep secrets from the one you love. A successful relationship is built upon mutual trust.” She’d read that in some boring magazine somewhere.