LORRAINE
Rescuing Marcus had been a lot more glamorous in Lorraine’s imagination.
When she’d pictured saving him from Deirdre—and she had pictured it—she’d imagined hundreds of flashbulbs igniting in her direction, reporters asking, “Lorraine, how can one woman be both so beautiful and intelligent?”
All the Barnard girls would cry how they’d been wrong, and wasn’t Lorraine the zebra’s spots, and she would instantly be invited to every collegiate party for the next four years, and she and all of her new best friends would sip gin fizzes and remark at how many boys there were for them to choose from, and Lorraine would say things like “My oh my, I can’t pick just one—that’s why I’m dating five!” And all of her new friends would laugh and laugh and laugh, and she would graduate summa cum laude and marry someone tall, dark, and handsome and somehow, some way, befriend Gloria Carmody again and they’d dance together at Marcus and Clara’s wedding.
But fantasy was much more engaging than reality.
And here she was, minus the flashing lights and newfound friends, alone with Melvin while everyone else raced to follow the Golden Couple to the reception—even though there wasn’t a wedding, who’d turn down a free party?
All anyone could talk about was Deirdre, Marcus, and Clara.
No one even mentioned Lorraine.
“Oh, that was so romantic!” Ginnie Worthington exclaimed, clinging to her pudgy husband’s arm. Her pale blue frock looked like it was wilting under the candlelight. “Why don’t you ever do anything romantic anymore, Wally?”
Wally raised his eyebrows. “You want me to leave you for a con woman so I can come back? Let’s just get some wedding cake so we can go home.”
Lorraine sighed—sure, she’d love a piece of cake. But it didn’t exactly go with fitting into her dress. No, water would have to do. Well … and a teensy bit of vodka.
“You feeling peachy, Raine?”
She whipped her head at the sound of Melvin’s familiar voice. He’d put his glasses back on—thank God—and was turning his white handkerchief gray trying to wipe the drawn-on mustache off his face. But without a mirror he was really just smearing dark smudges all over the lower half of his face.
Lorraine reached over and took the handkerchief. “Let me do that. You look like some kind of deranged chimney sweep.”
Melvin smiled and let her scrub his face. “But a chimney sweep who dresses very well for work.”
She laughed, continuing until his face was as clean as it was going to get without soap and water. She handed the cloth back to him, and there was a slight spark when they touched. Lorraine felt something rush through her—was it just static energy, or something else? “Listen, Melvin … you did a good job earlier. Really great. You were a very believable Southerner. Nice improvisation with all the finger raising!”
“Think so?”
“I do.” She reached up to push his hat back on his head a little so that his flaming red hair waved over his forehead. He needed to wear newsboy caps more—the hat gave him a real scholarly-yet-dangerous look. “And I love that hat on you!”
Melvin ducked his head and gave her a bashful smile. “I know I told you not to get me wrapped up in any of your schemes after the incident at the bridal shop, but this one was pretty … copacetic. Definitely a change of pace from all that reading at Columbia.”
“And how!” Lorraine said. “It’s ducky to get up to some mischief on your own once in a while! The characters in books shouldn’t have all the fun, right?”
“Right. And we were able to help Marcus avoid a terrible fate. Which means we both deserve some overpriced finger food and at least one dance, wouldn’t you say?”
Lorraine took Melvin’s arm and they moved through the nearly empty ballroom down the stairs to the Palm Court. Most of the crowd was already seated at tables beneath the domed glass ceiling; a group of black men dressed in white suits sat on a raised platform at the far end of the room, playing some springy jazz music. A few couples were dancing in the space between the stage and tables.
Clara and Marcus sat at one of the tables, guests on either side of them trying to get their attention. But they only had eyes for each other—and surprisingly, Lorraine wasn’t jealous at all.
She leaned against one of the enormous marble pillars by the court’s expansive archway. “Those two look so happy.”
“Yeah,” Melvin replied. “Isn’t it nice knowing you helped that happen?”
Lorraine crossed her arms and pouted. “But no one else knows! All anyone can talk about is Clara. It’s like I wasn’t even there.” The dreams of all the Barnard girls hearing about her amazing detective work and wanting to befriend her, or the Columbia boys wanting to date her, suddenly seemed so far out of reach.
“That’s how it should be! Sometimes you do something because it’s the right thing to do, not because you’re going to get the glory.”
Lorraine let his words sink in. “I guess you’re right.” She glanced at Melvin out of the corner of her eye. He was a genuinely nice boy. So different from Marcus, who had never seen her as anything more than a floozy, or Hank, who had lied to her and used her for his own personal gain. Melvin was here because he wanted to be. It was a good thing, too. If she was going to keep working on this whole being-a-decent-person-without-an-ulterior-motive thing, she was going to need a teacher.
Melvin took a deep breath and moved to stand in front of her. “Besides,” he went on, “we got to know each other much better because of this. And I have to say, Raine, you’re quite the kitten’s pajamas.”
“Really?” Melvin had always been willing to do everything for her. But he’d said himself that he only did that because he was her friend. There had been that moment at Forrest’s party when he’d held her … And then after the bridal shop debacle, he had said that he had a crush on someone. Someone he didn’t think felt the same way about him. Had he been talking about …
She felt her mouth stretch into an enormous smile. “You really think so?”
Melvin took a step closer to her, whipped off his glasses, and wrapped his arms around her. Lorraine barely had time to process what he was doing before he pulled her close and kissed her—hard.
There was passion, there was heat. Melvin kissed like Lorraine imagined men did in the movies—the kind of kiss that really meant something. She felt a thrilling tingle shoot from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. Her arms moved as if they had a mind of their own, winding around Melvin’s neck, her fingers getting lost in his impossibly soft hair.
Who could’ve guessed that brainy Melvin was such a good kisser?
And Melvin was a boy who really, truly liked her. Despite her laundry list of flaws.
Maybe even because of them.
Lorraine pulled away and looked at Melvin—it was almost as if he were an entirely different person now. He wasn’t the man she’d always imagined, but he was the man she needed. She gave him a wide smile, which he returned. Unfortunately the smile looked a little creepy with those tiny eyes twinkling down at her.
“Oh, Melvin. The smooching was great and all, but you really need to put your glasses back on.”
He chuckled and did as she’d said. And instantly he was handsome again—those frames were magic! Lorraine couldn’t believe she’d never noticed how attractive he was before, like a sexy professor, or maybe a writer. Handsome in an understated, intellectual way.
“Better?”
Lorraine grabbed his lapels and pulled him closer. “Much.”
But just as Melvin leaned in for another round of necking, there was the unmistakable crack of a gunshot.
Lorraine trembled, shocked. Who had a gun—and where was the shooter? Melvin instantly stood in front of Lorraine to protect her—he really was one of the good ones—and she peeked over his shoulder. A bald man in a tuxedo stood in the archway and held a stunning young brunette at gunpoint. Several guests were cowering under tables and looking around frantically for another exit. Lorraine didn’t recognize the man with the gun. A jagged scar ran across his nose.
She gasped when she studied the brunette in the purple dress more closely. Was that Ruby Hayworth?
“I want all the cops to clear out. Then I’ll let this lady go,” the thug bellowed.
Two men burst through the doorway behind the man, then approached him and Ruby slowly. Lorraine recognized one of them as Forrest Hamilton—rich, dark, and handsome. How was it that he wasn’t married?
Lorraine’s eyes widened at the other man. What was Hank doing here? Though she’d preferred the casual vests and trousers he’d worn as a bartender, his pressed black suit didn’t look too bad. Men dressed just like Hank followed him.
Hank and Forrest both held up their hands. “Violence won’t get you out of this jam, Callum. How about you just let the girl go and save yourself the murder charge?”
But the hard-boiled character—Callum—turned to Forrest. “You were going to hand me over to the bulls just so you could run away with this floozy!” He tightened his bulky arm around Ruby’s neck, pressing the gun harder into her temple. “That is not how a son honors his father.”
Ruby blinked, and mascara-blackened tears dribbled onto her cheeks.
Lorraine heard glasses and silverware clatter to the ground as guests stood from their tables or ducked for cover. Men and women both cried out for help, and many pressed up against the back wall of the court, as far from Callum and his gun as they could get. There was a jumble of people by the stairwell, which was clogged with people trying to get away. The room filled with tense whispers.
“First the bride’s a con woman and now someone’s holding a guest at gunpoint?” a woman in a red dress complained to her husband under a nearby table. “I told you I didn’t like your friends.”
The rest of the crowd stood and watched, as motionless as Lorraine and Melvin. Lorraine could hardly believe this Callum was Forrest Hamilton’s father. All the good genes must’ve come from his mother.
“You’re right,” Forrest said. His voice was shaky and he seemed much more like a boy than a man. “But don’t blame her—blame me. Hold me hostage instead of her!”
“You’re not worth anything,” Callum spat. “They’ll just shoot the both of us.”
Callum gestured to Hank with the gun for a split second—but that was all Forrest needed to attack.
Suddenly he was in the air, soaring into his father. Ruby cried out and ducked to the ground with her hands over her head, out of Callum’s hold and out of Forrest’s way.
Forrest pummeled into the older man’s chest with such force that Callum toppled over, hitting the floor with a sickening smack.
The pistol fell to the floor.
Forrest reached for it, his limbs tangled with his father’s. Ruby jumped up and tried to help Forrest, grabbing Callum’s coat and attempting to yank him away.
But before Ruby could do any damage, Hank was by her side, pulling her to safety.
A few FBI agents attempted to separate Forrest and his father, but Callum was rushing after the pistol and then it was difficult to see what was going on—there were FBI men everywhere, screaming things, and guests hovering in fear underneath the tables, praying for help.
There was something silver sliding across the floor—the pistol? A hand grabbed it, but in all the commotion, Lorraine couldn’t see who the hand belonged to. She tried to lean forward, but Melvin stood firmly in front of her.
Lorraine heard someone—Ruby?—cry, “Forrest!” and then there was another gunshot.
Melvin dove to the ground, pulling Lorraine along with him by her arm. She hit the floor on her elbows and flinched at the impact, the carpet scraping her skin as she slid forward. As soon as Lorraine was down, Melvin covered her body with his. She could feel him breathing hard and fast.
She and Melvin weren’t the only ones with this idea—the sound of glass breaking and chairs falling filled the room as guests dove for cover. In mere seconds, everyone in the room was lying or kneeling on the plush burgundy carpet in fear.
Callum was the first to rise, making a quick run for the lobby. But Hank took him down in a flying tackle before he even reached the doorway.
“I did always love the way that man moved.” Lorraine glanced at Melvin over her shoulder. “You should have seen him behind a bar.”
Melvin rose to his feet and offered her his hand. “You don’t think anyone got hit by that second shot, do you?”
A crowd was gathering around the front of the court, near the arched entrance, where the struggle had taken place. The room was noisy, but not as loud as it should’ve been. The guests could only speak in hushed, terrified whispers. People gasped, and Lorraine saw an older woman clutch what looked like a rosary with closed eyes.
Lorraine pulled Melvin through the crowd, trying to get a glimpse of Forrest, Ruby, Hank, and Callum.
Someone had gotten hurt, hadn’t they?
A wail that sounded more like it came from an animal than a woman pierced the air.
Hank had Callum in handcuffs, but the older man wasn’t fighting now. He stared, stricken, at the ground where Ruby knelt beside a motionless figure.
It was Forrest Hamilton.
His brown eyes were open and glassy, staring up at the domed ceiling without seeing it. Lorraine stared at his broad chest and willed it to rise and fall. But the young millionaire was utterly still. Blood trickled from his mouth, which was open in a surprised O.
Forrest’s hand rested on his chest, over a deep red circle staining the center of his crisp white shirt. Blood sank into the burgundy carpet around him, turning it brown.
“No, no, no, no,” Ruby said over and over. She clung to Forrest and shook with sobs. “You big idiot,” she cried. “What’d you go and do that for?”
Behind her, Hank pushed the handcuffed Callum out into the lobby, followed by most of the other agents. Two of the suits stayed behind; one put his hand on Ruby’s shoulder. She shook him off violently and remained beside Forrest, leaning over his body. Blood from his chest seeped into the bodice of her dress, making it look as if she were bleeding, too—but no one was moving to stop her or do anything except watch the horrifying scene playing out before their eyes.
Lorraine turned to Melvin and wordlessly put her arms around him. She made herself a silent promise: No matter how many ill-fitting suits Melvin wore or how many times he begged her to run through yet another set of annoyingly specific flash cards, she would never forget how thankful she was to have him.
It was better to risk loving too much before it was too late and all you were left with was regret.
JEROME
Despite everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, being on the water made Jerome feel calm.
He and Gloria stood on the foredeck of the steamship, watching the island of Manhattan get smaller and smaller as they floated away. The night air was chilly, and Jerome could practically taste the salt coming off the harbor. Several of the boat’s passengers were braving the cold with Gloria and Jerome so they could say their silent goodbyes to the lights of New York City.
Gloria hadn’t taken her arm from Jerome’s or looked at anyone but him since they’d boarded the ship to Paris. Jerome had noticed more than one passenger staring at them from their deck chairs. Some had even left in a huff, retreating to their cabins.
Well, let them stare. Let them leave. Nobody had any idea what they’d been through. What they’d survived in order to be here.
Jerome glanced down at his arm, where Gloria’s engagement ring glinted on her finger. Seeing it on her made him feel whole again.
Gloria turned to him and tugged at the scuffed collar of his white shirt, then looked at her formal gown and laughed. “I think our first stop once we get there will have to be to some kind of clothing shop. These aren’t exactly traveling clothes. And you’re still stuck in that servant’s uniform!”
The gruesome wedding was barely two hours behind them. Jerome hadn’t known what would happen to him—locked in Pembroke’s cellar, cuffed and bound, he figured he was pretty much as good as dead.
Then the cellar door had been opened by none other than Hank.
And Gloria.
She had explained everything—Clara and Marcus getting together, Forrest’s death and Pembroke’s arrest. “I’m just so glad you’re safe,” Gloria had whispered, clinging to him. “I couldn’t live without you.”
“I put you both in danger, and I’m sorry,” Hank admitted. “But we got our man. It’s about as happy an ending as we could ask for.”
Not for Ruby or Forrest, Jerome found himself thinking, but he kept his mouth shut. Hank promised that Gloria wouldn’t have to spend any more time in jail, and he’d even given the couple Pembroke’s tickets to Paris to use if they wanted to.
So here they were.
Escaping—again—to start a new life together. Only this time would be different. They were older, smarter. Even more in love.
“Are you scared?” Jerome asked. “You’re taking a lot of risks escaping to Paris with a black pianist.”
The two leaned on the railing, staring at the water glistening in the quiet twilight. Soft waves brushed by the hull of the ship, and the breeze lightly blew Gloria’s flame-red waves from her delicate face.
“Scared?” Gloria asked. “Anything but! I’m tired of everyone telling me who to be. I’m tired of my parents thinking they can dictate my life.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Paris will be a fresh start for us, Jerome. And it’s gotta work out … I mean, the French even have Josephine Baker!”
Jerome laughed. He never could decide whether Glo’s blind optimism made her sweetly naïve or one of the wisest people he’d ever met. Either way, it was highly infectious and was one of the things he loved most about her.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” he said. “I meant—”
“Fine,” Gloria said, and raised her head to look at him. “I’ll be serious.” She reached over to hold his hand tight. “I was so worried when Pembroke revealed that he was holding you hostage, Jerome. You were in that situation because of me, and I was there because of Hank.”
“Gloria, you shouldn’t blame yourself.”
“I don’t want to have to hide anymore or playact for the police. I don’t want to work for gangsters. I just want you, and me, together in a place where we might have a ghost of a chance.” She frowned and glanced at the retreating shore. “I can’t bear the thought of being like Ruby, finally getting the courage to be with the man she loves only to lose him.”
Jerome nodded and folded her into his arms. “If we have love, the rest of life will take care of itself. In Paris, no one will tell us that we can’t be together because of our skin color. No one will care. It’ll just be you and me. Forever.”
At that, Gloria tilted her head back and kissed him softly, right in front of everyone on deck.
“In Paris we’ll be able to follow our dreams,” Gloria said when she drew away from him. “Not just in our careers, but everything else, too. Maybe we’ll come back to New York someday … but for now, we’re making the right decision, Jerome. I can feel it in my bones.” She was silent for a moment. “I just hope you don’t mind following me across the ocean.”
Jerome tightened his arms around her. “Miss Gloria Carmody, I would follow you anywhere.”
They kissed again as the sun set and stars began to glint in the darkening sky. The golden-orange light gilded everything around them—the shrinking skyscrapers, the blue sea, and the gleaming floorboards of the deck. New York was giving them a truly golden send-off—that had to be good luck, right?
With Gloria in his arms as the ship steamed off into the fast-falling night, Jerome knew he already had all the good luck he would ever need.
CLARA KNOWLES GETS
HER HAPPILY-EVER-AFTER
By Parker Richards, for the Manhattanite
January 1, 1925
In a small but elegant ceremony this Saturday afternoon, Clara Knowles and Marcus Eastman said their vows at the Franklin Arms Hotel in Brooklyn.
Miss Knowles wore a beautifully beaded Lucien Lelong gown, while Mr. Eastman was dressed in a traditional Brooks Brothers tux. Miss Knowles’s maid of honor was Lorraine Dyer, and Mr. Eastman’s best man was his old prep school friend from Chicago, Charles Drakeman. Miss Dyer and the other bridesmaids wore sleeveless deep-burgundy dresses covered in floral-patterned beading.
The reception was a joyous affair, and Mr. and Mrs. Eastman seemed excited for all their future would bring. After a honeymoon to Paris, Mr. Eastman will continue his freshman year at Columbia University. Next fall, Mrs. Eastman will begin her freshman year at Sarah Lawrence College.
As our dear readers know, Mrs. Eastman has been with the Manhattanite since its very first issue, and her articles about her cousin, Gloria Johnson (now living in Paris and unable to attend the wedding), and her recent exposé on Deirdre Van Doren helped to make the magazine what it is today. We’ll be sad to lose her when she heads off to school. But I know she will go on to do great things, and wish her and Marcus a lifetime of happiness!
This beautiful wedding was the perfect way to kick off a brand-new year in the greatest city in the world—where love is hiding around every corner, music is thriving in every club, and, of course, anything goes.