Baroness (23 page)

Rosie threw a pillow at her. But Cesar's warning had hung in her ear every day for nearly two weeks.
You're Cesar's girl now. You belong to me.

She got up and went to the bureau, stared at herself in the mirror, tugging at her hair.

“I like the peroxide look,” Lexie said. “It makes you stand out.”

“Cesar's suggestion,” she said, trying to decide if she liked herself as a blond. “Guthrie hasn't seen it yet.”

“And probably it's best if he never does.” Lexie sat up, crossing her legs on the bed. “So, whatcha gonna wear to Cesar's party?”

Just like his father, Cesar was hosting a birthday party. “I don't know. Cesar bought me a dress to apologize for sleeping with that bimbo, but I already wore it. He won't notice if I wear it again, though. He's consumed with the party. He's ordered live peacocks to stroll the grounds of the club.”

“Oh, he'll notice you. Especially if you wear something swank. Why don't we go shopping? We'll charge it to Cesar's account.”

Well, she
was
Cesar's girl, or so he said.

The matron at Barney's showed them into the private rooms, gilded with mirrors and red velvet chairs, where attendants offered them juice (if they were in Paris, they'd be drinking champagne) and sandwiches while store models displayed the latest fashions. Lexie wore a pair of black slacks and a white blouse, her dark hair perfectly marshaled in gentle waves. She smoked a Lucky Strike in a long black cigarette holder, peering at the models as if they might be lying to her.

Rosie finally chose a long pale pink dress with a drop waist and an embroidered bodice, separated from the skirt by a satin sash. When she tried it on for Lexie, her friend gave her a saucy, approving wink.

She would prefer to wear it for Guthrie, but since Cesar's money purchased it, she'd wait until his party. She added a gray felt cloche hat, pale shimmering silk stockings, and a pair of black suede shoes.

The store clerk packaged it all up and sent them home with a porter, in the store's car.

Rosie nearly dropped her bundles when she spied Guthrie sitting in the lobby of the Algonquin. He looked tanned, his hair burnished by the sun.

“Guthrie!” she said, her voice a little too bright.

“Hey, Red…or should I say Goldie? Wow.” A smile touched his face. Indeed, how could he be anything but devastatingly handsome, with that dimple in the center of his chin and the way he could grin, real slowly, and make her feel beautiful? He got up and pulled his derby off his head. “You look real pretty.”

She didn't care that he had to be lying, because she had barely kohled her eyes or powdered her face. At least she'd remembered to apply lipstick before leaving the store. “I thought I wouldn't see you until tomorrow, after the game.”

“I wanted to see you.”

She let those words seep inside, leaned into them.

“I was hoping we could…maybe go for a stroll?”

She turned to look at Lexie, who was shaking her head. “Take my packages.”

“You've got a show tonight,” Lexie said as she reluctantly held out her hands. “Don't miss it.”

Rosie frowned at her. Turned back to Guthrie. “Where are we going?”

“Ever been to Coney Island?”

She'd been to Paris and Newport and the Berkshires, but never across the bay to Jersey and the shores of Coney Island.

They walked along Surf Avenue under the glittering lights of the shows, then onto the newly laid boards of the Reigelman Boardwalk, the sea air and cotton candy sweetness adding a tang to the summer night. Picnickers and bathers still kicked up the waves, and at the fair end, the Parachute Tower loomed above them, a giant steel tower with a pancake across the sky.

Screams from the steeplechase drifted in the air, mingling with the music from the band shell.

“This is the perfect hot dog,” Guthrie said, handing over her doctored Nathan's dog. The wind found her skin and sent a whisper of chill over it as she maneuvered the hot dog into her mouth. Ketchup and mustard squeezed from the sides.

Guthrie reached out and wiped the edge of her mouth. “A little extra there.”

She licked her lips. “Delicious.”

“I still can't believe you'd never had a hot dog. Or attended a baseball game.”

“My brother tried to talk me into going once. Back right before the war. But…it didn't work out.”

“Maybe next year, I can get him tickets.”

She made a face. Oh, how did she do that, bring up Jack, when all she wanted to do was run from the topic of her lost brother? “No. Jack…Jack never came back from the war.”

It was easier said that way than to explain that Jack ran away from home after hearing about his mother's adultery and the fact that Jack's uncle was suddenly his father. Or that he hadn't been heard from since.

This explanation made Jack sound like a war hero.

“I'm so sorry, Rosie.” Guthrie drew in a breath. “I lost my oldest brother in the war. I didn't know him real well, but his passing surely made a loss in our family. My mother would sit for long hours in her rocking chair, holding our family Bible, just staring out the window, as if he might appear from between the cornrows. I couldn't bear it and started playing as much ball as I could, just to stay away. Pretty soon, it became my entire life, was all I had. Playing kept me numb, made me feel untouchable.”

Rosie looked at the long shadows over the boardwalk. “My mother crawled in bed with me a couple of months ago and sobbed herself to sleep.” She hadn't shared that with anyone, hadn't really been able to acknowledge it herself. “We've been grieving for a long time.”

The rush of the waves, the caw of gulls, and children's voices filled the silence. “My parents fought a lot when I was young. My father was…” She drew in a breath. “He could be so cruel. Sometimes I could hear them in the parlor, hear things break, hear my mother screaming, and I'd climb into the wardrobe in my room and shut the door.”

“Oh, Red.”

“My brother, he knew where my hiding space was and sometimes, when he was home, he'd sneak down the hallway and hide in the wardrobe with me. We'd play rock, paper, scissors, and have thumb wars, and he'd tell me stories about the boys at his academy. He told me it would be all right.” She glanced at Guthrie. “It wasn't. And then he left. It hasn't been okay since.”

Her appetite had vanished, so she threw away the hot dog, wiped her mouth. “I just can't take any more grief in my life. I don't want to feel this way anymore. I want to live.” She looked at him. “Is that a terrible thing?”

“I think that's a normal thing. The question is—how will you live?” He was looking at her with those green eyes, and they seemed to hold a power she couldn't bear. She looked away.

“I think I have to get back to the city. I'm on stage at ten o'clock.”

He blew out a breath. “Red, I need to ask you something.” He put a hand on her arm.

She stopped, and watching the tension on his face, her chest tightened.

Then, suddenly, he dropped to one knee, right there in the middle of the boardwalk. “Guthrie—”

He took her hand. “Just listen to me, Red. I know we haven't known each other long. Certainly not long enough for me ask this, but the truth is, I'm in love with you. I think I was the minute I saw you on that verandah. And maybe we don't yet love each other the way an engaged couple should, but I know that I can't stop thinking about you, and the thought of being traded and moving to Chicago—”

“Traded? Moving? What are you talking about?”

“Red! I'm in the middle of something here!”

She closed her mouth.

“So, it looks like I might be getting traded, maybe even to the Sox. Like I said, I can't bear the thought of leaving you behind, so I was wondering…”

She held her breath as he reached into his coat pocket. He produced a little velvet box. “Red, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

Oh. My. He opened the box. A simple silver band with a chip of a diamond lay in the center of it. She stared at it.

“I know it's not very big, but who knows. Maybe I bat in a few more homers next year, land myself an end-of-the-year bonus—”

“Shh, Guthrie.” She put her hand over his. “It's beautiful.” She took the box, ran her finger over the ring. Oh, how she'd like to try it on. Keep it on. She looked down at him, those kind green eyes searching hers, and she saw in them a future filled with a home and children, and—

“I told you, I'm not the marrying kind, Guthrie. I'm a chorus girl, and I'm headed for show business, and—”

But he was shaking his head. He got up, took her face in his hands. “Red, you're an amazing, beautiful woman, and I would love to spend the rest of my life with you. You're exactly the marrying kind.”

What girl did he see? Because she saw a good man giving out his heart to a woman who didn't know what to do with it. Who perhaps didn't have the capacity to love him. Hadn't she just been shopping for Cesar's birthday party? And three months ago, she'd been ready to give her heart away to Dashielle Parks.

“I'm a good-time girl,” she said, shaking her head. “I think it would just end in heartbreak, Guthrie.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you hear nothing of my story? My life is a tragedy. My father was murdered, my brother is lost, my aunt recently died, my cousin— who knows where she is? Everyone I love leaves me. And I finally figured out why. Because I'm not worth enough to keep them around. Jack and Lilly could have stayed for me, and my father—if he truly cared for me, would he have destroyed so many lives? Not to mention Dash— he just wanted a girl who liked to have fun.”

“Dash?” A darkness edged Guthrie's eyes.

“Dashielle Parks. He's no one, now. But see, people only want me if I can give them something. Like Cesar. But you—you don't need anything from me. And that's a recipe for disaster.”

“Oh, Red,” he said softly, and tipped up her chin. “I do need you. Didn't I tell you that you're my lucky charm? You're beautiful and intriguing, and I'm thirsty for your smile. You're not just enough, you're everything.” Then he bent and kissed her. It was so sweet she wanted to weep with the gentleness in his touch. He wove his hand along her face, tilted it up, and ran his thumb down her cheek. She couldn't help it—the way he touched her made her curl her arms up around his shoulders and mold herself to him.

Right now, right here, she was thirsty for him too.

He tasted tangy, like ketchup, and sweet like soda pop, and when he made a little sound of contentment, it made tears edge her eyes.

Yes, she could love this man.

Until, of course, he left her for someone or something that could give him more. She buried her head in his chest, blinking away tears. Then she untangled herself from his arms, turned her back on him, and walked away, to the edge of the boardwalk, staring at the waves, one by one pounding the shore in a tremendous frothy roar.

He was silent behind her. Finally, “That's a no, isn't it?”

She drew in a breath. Nodded.

She heard him slip the box back into his jacket. Then he came to stand beside her. “I leave in a week, on the 6 a.m. train, if you change your mind.”

She wiped her eyes. Bit her lip. Hated her life, her choices, the Rosie she'd become. But that's what she wanted, wasn't it? “I won't change my mind.”

Chapter 10

Truman had changed. It wasn't just that he had stopped leaving camp in the evenings after a show to brood in some dark hole where he'd drown away his regrets. No, he seemed more…alive. As if her ability to hang off a wing and put her face into the wind had awakened something inside him.

And, he smiled.

He smiled when he plucked her out of the cockpit to bow before the cheering crowd. He smiled when he poked his head up out of an engine and found her there, holding a feeler gauge. He smiled when he landed after each hop, looking to her for their next customer.

And he smiled now as she came up to him, his shirt sleeves rolled up, sitting on a crate, blue paint dripping from a brush. “What do you think?”

“Lola,” she read. “The Flying Angel.”

“If you don't like it, we can change it. It's just that you told me the first time you went flying, it was in a plane called Lola. I thought…” He shrugged. “I thought you'd like it.”

She had told him about Paris and the plane, and conveniently left out Rennie, whom she thought about so rarely, what with learning new tricks and handholds, ferrying the equipment from one town to the next, repairing planes, promoting shows—in fact, she couldn't remember the last time Rennie had edged into her mind. So, “Yes, I like it.” She squatted down beside him, took the paintbrush. “But the
L
needs a bit of flair.” She added a curl and extended the bottom line of the L across the sign, under the word Angel. “It's a pin curl.” She handed the brush back to him, and again he smiled.

Her stomach could do a barrel roll off that smile.

“We're about ready to head out—I just wanted to fix the sign before the next show.”

“What's Moseby going to think?” She'd been writing every week to the hospital in Detroit Lakes, where Eddie had rented a small house and started working as a mechanic. Moseby still recuperated, her leg and hip in traction, her ribs on the mend, her broken arm in a cast.

“I think Moseby will be relieved that we have a new angel. She isn't unaware of the costs of this show.”

“The show must go on, right?”

“There's my star performers!” Marvel strode up to them, his suit coat off, his sleeves rolled up. “I'm leaving for Eau Claire. I'll see you there.” He handed Lilly a flyer. “Thought you'd like to see the new lineup.”

She read the bulletin. “An Air
Pageant
?”