Diva (12 page)

“Aw, come on, it’s Madge Bellamy!” a handsome swell in white exclaimed. Clara had already forgotten his name. “I think Clara would understand.”

“He’s absolutely right,” Clara said. “You go off to Hollywood to wine and dine the pretty little actress. Meanwhile, I’ll take over the
Manhattanite
and turn it into something actually worth reading.”

Parker laughed with the others, but Clara could see annoyance in his eyes. “I discovered her and taught Clara everything she knows, I’m happy to confess.”

“You’ve always had an eye for talent, Parker,” said a brunette beauty in a sparkling sheath, fluttering her lashes.

Parker’s cigarette dangled elegantly between his fingers and his green eyes lit up with interest as the brunette began to tell a story about running into Charlie Chaplin at the 21 Club. Parker looked like he was posing for a photograph, just like everyone else at Forrest Hamilton’s party.

Clara had been hoping to find more stimulating conversation, but alas—she hadn’t. She’d left the dance floor when she saw a girl in an orange beaded dress dance the treacherously fast quick-time fox-trot with a man in a blue suit. Their moves were perfect, without even the hint of a stumble, their faces etched with the self-satisfied, determined smiles of people eager to impress.

It had annoyed her.

Everyone at this party was trying so hard to prove how wonderful and interesting they were. These flappers and swells were supposed to be the most fun-loving people in the world. But what time was there for fun when a person had to put so much effort into having it?

“You know, Hamilton’s a Broadway producer!” Parker’s oh-so-admiring brunette friend exclaimed, startling Clara out of her reverie. “Harold and I have invested in his new show,
Moonshine Melody
.”

The much-older man sitting beside her nodded. “No one liked
The Cat’s Meow
, but a man this young with so much money—this Forrest Hamilton must have some idea what he’s doing.”

“Mmm, because if he’s got money, he must be talented!” Clara said. No one but Parker caught her sarcastic tone. “It’s not like anyone ever made a dishonest dollar in show business. Like Parker here!” she continued. “He makes his living trying to guess which starlet might have an affair next and which ones are married to crooks.”

The mood of the group grew a bit sour. Parker loosened his collar and narrowed his eyes at Clara. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said.

He grabbed Clara’s wrist and steered her out of the room and down the hallway, back to where the party was in full swing. She could hear the faint sounds of someone, a girl with a pretty voice, singing with the band. “What has gotten into you?” Parker asked in a hushed voice.

Clara backed up. Was he serious? “What’s gotten into
me
? What about you? Where do you think you got the right to call me
your
Clara?”

He raised his eyebrows. “We’ve been together for weeks now—”

“No! No, we have not,” Clara said. It had been a stupid idea to come here with Parker. She hadn’t been able to get up the courage to embarrass him in front of his friends. And anyway, what good would it have done? It probably would’ve just gotten Clara fired. Bursting in and making a scene without thinking of the consequences—that was more horrid Lorraine Dyer’s style. Clara just needed to put an end to this … whatever it was Parker thought was going on between them, once and for all. No matter the consequences.

“We’ve gone to dinner
twice
,” Clara went on, seething. “Where do you get off bragging to everyone in New York that you and I are an item—ugh! I have half a mind to slap you across the face.” She raised her clutch as though to strike him.

Parker ducked, then opened his mouth and closed it, at a loss for what to say.

“You don’t care about me—all you care about is yourself. I’m just one more trophy on your way to the top!”

Parker’s cheeks reddened. “Clara, lower your voice.”

“I’ve got a better idea.”

Clara whipped around and walked away without looking back. She could faintly hear Parker call her name, but she quickly let herself get lost in the crowd.

And ran straight into a girl in a red dress, sloshing half the girl’s martini onto the marble floor.

“I’m so sor—” Clara began. But as she took in the girl’s dark brown bob, wide hazel eyes, and too-smoky eye makeup, the words died on her lips. “You have
got
to be kidding me.”

Lorraine latched on to Clara’s arm with her free hand. “Why, Clara Knowles! I’m so glad you’re here!” Lorraine said with a slightly desperate smile. A diminutive blonde in a white dress who looked way too nice and normal to be friends with Lorraine stood beside her. “We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Clara snapped, yanking her arm away. “And don’t ever touch me again.”

A very tiny part of Clara wanted to know what Lorraine Dyer was doing here. But she couldn’t imagine a person she wanted to see—or chat with—less. Lorraine was just one more reminder of Chicago. Of Marcus. And Clara couldn’t bear to think about her ex-boyfriend just now.
Don’t cry
, she told herself.

Clara whipped her head around, trying to find an escape route, when a tall redheaded boy with thick-framed glasses appeared and blocked her in.

“Raine, I’ve been looking all over for you. You said you and Becky were just going to get drinks!” His brown suit hung baggy on his thin frame. He might have been cute, but the oversized glasses made it nearly impossible to tell.

“It was crowded at the bar,” the blonde girl—Becky—said dreamily, “but I think I saw Rudolph Valentino!”

Lorraine ignored them. “Clara, I’m not playing any games this time.” She waved a hand in the air. “I’ve turned over a new leaf! A whole
tree
of new leaves! I haven’t had a drink in eight weeks!”

Clara pointed to the half-empty martini glass in Lorraine’s hand.

Lorraine’s face twisted. “Other than this one!”

“She’s telling the truth,” Becky said. “She’s been sober as a nun.”

Clara groaned. “I don’t care whether you’re drier than the Gobi; I don’t want to have anything to do with you.” She shoved past them.

As she walked away, she half recognized a few faces from the Manhattan party scene: a handsome man wearing a top hat, a blonde in shimmering gold lamé. What were their names? Maybe she could convince one of them to give her a ride home.…

“This isn’t about me!” Clara heard Lorraine call out from behind her. “It’s about Marcus!”

Clara stopped dead in her tracks.

Marcus
. She couldn’t escape him for even a few minutes, could she? They were no longer together, he was about to marry someone else, yet even now hearing his name gave her chills. It called him up where he was always lurking at the surface of her memory, and suddenly it was as if he were standing right next to her, looking dapper and slightly amused, one blond eyebrow raised, a smile quirking the corners of his lips, just before kissing her ever so lightly at the nape of her neck.

“He’s in mortal danger!” Lorraine yelled, causing several guests to glance over.

Before Clara even realized what she was doing, she marched her patent-leather heels right back to Lorraine. She crossed her arms and looked up at the taller girl. “Mortal danger? Really, Lorraine? Start talking. This had better be good.”

As soon as Lorraine opened her in-desperate-need-of-blotting mouth to speak, she froze with her eyes fixed on the stage. Ruby was still singing—she was absolutely killing it. Clara had never seen the Broadway star’s hit show, but her voice definitely sounded familiar. Lorraine’s mouth continued to hang open. “Oh my God,” she finally said.

Clara whipped around to face the stage. And she saw that the singer wasn’t Ruby Hayworth at all. It was Gloria.

“Seriously?”
Clara said. “You have got to be kidding me.”

LORRAINE

Lorraine always thought that if heartbreak were a sound, it would be like shattering glass or the angry screech of a halting train. But Gloria Carmody’s voice was pure heartbreak, all right, and it sounded
fantastic
.

Her old friend looked beyond beautiful. Gloria’s short, flame-red hair waved softly around her doll-like face like some kind of halo. She’d gained some of her weight back since her stint at the Opera House, but those sharp cheekbones and that world-weary depth in her big, pale eyes were here to stay. Her dress was pink, as it had been the night of her first and only performance at the Opera House. But
that
dress had been pale pink—just a rosy shade darker than white. Lorraine remembered thinking how well the color
would’ve suited the blushing ingenue Gloria had once been.
This
dress was a deep, sultry pink that suited the full-blown diva Gloria had become. This Gloria knew men, life, and love—and she knew how to make the audience feel all she’d been through with a flash of her emerald eyes. She wasn’t the by-the-book deb Lorraine had grown up with, but she wasn’t the beaten-down, desperate woman who’d walked in to audition at the Opera House, either.

No, the Gloria who held her hand to her chest, closed her eyes, and wailed onstage was someone else altogether.

I ain’t got nobody
,

And nobody cares for me

That’s why I’m sad and lonely
,

Say, won’t you just take a chance with me?

’Cause I’ll sing sweet love songs all the time

If you will be a pal of mine

’Cause I ain’t got nobody
,

And nobody cares for me
.

Through everything, Gloria had never completely lost her adorably naïve innocence, that hopeful fire that had allowed her to march into a love affair with a black man without looking back. Now Gloria’s innocence had just been bruised. The audience could see it in the way Gloria sometimes hugged herself as she sang, the faraway look she got in her eyes. But
that vulnerability made her even more fetching and compelling. Gloria Carmody didn’t just sing the blues—she lived them; she was their very essence.

As Gloria wailed on about her sorrow and loneliness, it made Lorraine wonder where Jerome Johnson was. Gloria was so convincing when she sang about her broken heart. Had something gone wrong between her and her fiancé?

As soon as Gloria finished singing, the room exploded into deafening applause. Before Gloria had come onstage, small groups had been convening around the furniture scattered throughout the room—playing cards on the wooden coffee tables, sitting in cushioned chairs around the dark fireplace, lounging on the long couches and davenports that stood near the ivory walls. Now those cards lay forgotten on deserted tables, and several guests had dragged their chairs and couches closer to the stage and dance floor. Lorraine could barely see Gloria over the heads of the scores of men who’d risen from their seats. Everyone in the large room had leaped to their feet with such enthusiasm that more than one flute of champagne had tumbled to the floor.

The guests chanted “Encore, encore” until Gloria whispered to the band, taking the mike for a second time.

Clara’s silver bangle slipped down to her elbow as she brushed away tears. “I keep thinking she can’t get any better, and then she goes and does something like that.” In her amazement at Gloria’s performance, she seemed to Lorraine to have forgotten how angry she’d been a few minutes earlier.

Which meant Lorraine needed to tell Clara about Marcus
now
.

The bald piano player banged out a short, upbeat introduction, his shoulders rocking. This was the orchestra that had been playing all night, but they had found a new energy with Gloria onstage. She turned to give the musicians a dazzling smile before she launched into a faster tune.

There ain’t nothin’ I can do or nothin’ I can say

That folks don’t criticize me

But I’m going to do just as I want to anyway

And don’t care if they all despise me
.

Many of the guests abandoned their chairs and couches for the dance floor, shaking and shimmying all over the place. Lorraine gulped down the rest of her second martini before someone’s jabbing elbow could knock it out of her hands. She’d already sacrificed half a drink on her night of freedom—she wasn’t going to let any more good booze go to waste.

“
That’s
Gloria Carmody?” Becky asked, her brown eyes full of awe. “The way you described her, I expected her to be less … just
less
, I think.”

“Yeah, gosh, isn’t she amazing?” Melvin exclaimed with a goofy smile.

No one, not even Lorraine’s best friends at school, could help falling head over heels in love with Gloria Carmody.
Didn’t they remember the way she had abandoned Lorraine, how she had believed Lorraine would tell Gloria’s then fiancé Bastian about her affair with Jerome back in Chicago?