Baroness (34 page)

The urge to disembark at Fifth pulsed inside Rosie until the doors closed and the train rumbled forward, the curtains at the windows shivering with the movement.

Guthrie would be looking for her, needing her smile as he took the mound.

She thought she remembered him saying this line turned north, toward Harlem and the Washington Heights district where the Giants played. It took her two stops before she realized the train had veered onto Broadway, passing 48th Street, then Times Square.

As she read the electronic marquees, her chest tightened. She needed to get off, perhaps take a taxi down to the stadium.

She checked her watch. The game had started five minutes ago.

She got off at the next stop—34th Street, and stood on the sidewalk, smelling the exhaust of the Packards, the Fords, listening to the buzz of the city wheedle through her. She'd forgotten the electric hum of the city, the fragrances of the bakeries, the sound of horses and pedestrians and buses. A fever flowed through Manhattan different from that of Chicago. Almost an anticipation, even an arrogance.

How many times had she traveled down Broadway in her mother's Duisenberg, watching the peasants disembark from the train?

A florist had set up a stand on the sidewalk, hawking roses and peonies, lilies and tulips. Next to him, a newsie held up a paper from his stack, announcing the headlines.

She paid him a nickel and read the headline. L
INDBERGH
D
OES
I
T
! T
O
P
ARIS
IN
33 ½ H
OURS
; F
LIES
1,000 M
ILES
T
HROUGH
S
NOW AND
S
LEET
; C
HEERING
F
RENCH
C
ARRY
H
IM
O
FF
F
IELD
. P
ARIS
B
OULEVARDS
R
ING
W
ITH
C
ELEBRATION
A
FTER
D
AY AND
N
IGHT
W
ATCH
.
She read the masthead and found Oliver and Esme's names, and on the article the initials at the byline made her smile. L. J. Hoyt.

So Lilly hadn't married. But she'd managed to fill her mother's shoes. Perhaps she would finally forgive Rosie. Perhaps both their lives had turned out exactly as they should be.

Rosie looked up and found herself on the corner of 40th Street. She stopped for a moment on the edge of the theater district. Ahead, the marquees of the Majestic Theater and the Gallo Opera House beckoned, the old pulse inside her pushing her forward. She stood across the street from Times Square, voices in her head.

You, a star?
Dashielle's laughter that night in Paris.

I'll make you my headliner.
Cesar's voice, dark and too alluring in those early days.

A playbill tumbled by on the wind and she stamped her foot on it, reading the name.
Tommy
, performed at the Gaiety Theater at 46th and Broadway.

She would like to see that.

She checked her watch again. Even if Guthrie hadn't taken the mound, he would be searching for her from the dugout. But she needed to sit, perhaps drink some water before she found her way back to the subway. Already, she ached all the way through to her bones, and Charlie wasn't helping, the way he moved as if anxious to get to the game.

A red canopy over a nearby restaurant suggested shade, and she wandered over and settled down on the bench by the door. A doorman gave her a look but she leaned back, closing her eyes, fanning herself.

The smells drifted out—roast pork slathered in rosemary and garlic, new potatoes in butter, dark red wine—perhaps she just imagined it all, but she could nearly taste the meal. How long had it been since she'd dined out?

“Rosie Worth?”

The voice roused her out of her hunger, her fatigue, and she managed to open her eyes.

“Blanche?”

She looked every bit as beautiful and daring and flamboyant as she had the day Rosie left her in Paris, with siren-blond hair, those green eyes, sharp and bright, missing nothing. She wore a rose-colored linen dress with a low sash, and a gray low-brimmed hat, a satin ribbon around the brim, and three strands of pearls at her neck. Her kohled eyes scraped over Rosie, her lips a perfect surprising pout of shock, traced in lipstick so red they glistened like blood. Had Rosie even remembered lipstick? Her hand nearly went to her mouth to check.

“It is you. Oh my.” Blanche slid down onto the bench beside her. “What are you doing outside Sardis? And…” Her gaze trailed down to Rosie's protruding belly. “In such a condition? Why aren't you home, in bed, or perhaps down in Newport, and out of this heat?” Blanche looked closer, her voice dropping. “You're sweating, dear. And you don't look well. Who are you waiting for?” Her gaze dropped to Rosie's finger. “And who on earth did you marry?”

Rosie slipped her hand over her plain gold band, her own gaze darting to the glittering stone on Blanche's finger. “Who did
you
marry?”

“Why, Pembrook, of course.” She glanced away from Rosie, toward the restaurant. “In fact, I'm meeting him for lunch. Why don't you join us?”

Oh. “I…can't. My husband has a game.” Funny to say that out loud, a sentence that had come so easily to her in the past three years. Now it seemed out of place, even vulgar. Indeed, Blanche raised a perfectly penciled eyebrow.

“What kind of game?”

“He plays baseball. For the Giants.”

Blanche said nothing for a long moment, just swallowed, and her smile seemed tugged out from some place of shock. “Baseball?”

“He's a pitcher. Today's his first home game. He was traded from the White Sox in Chicago a few weeks ago.”

“So that's where you've been? Chicago?” Blanche shook her head. “Darling, no wonder we haven't seen you. Chicago! A mobster's city from what I hear.” She hooked her arm through Rosie's. “You look positively peaked. Let us lunch and you can catch us all up.”

“Us?”

“Me and Pem…and we expect Dash, also.”

Dash. The name jolted her forward, sizzled inside her. Dash.

You're my good-time girl. But I don't want to get married.

She settled a hand over her stomach. “I don't think—”

“I absolutely insist.” Blanche rose, pulling Rosie to her feet. “At least a lemonade, okay? My treat.”

She wasn't sure if Blanche had quickly assessed her financial situation or simply wanted to be generous, but the kindness of her friend wooed Rosie into the cool interior of Sardis.

The place reminded her of Delmonico's, with the white tablecloths, the bright lamplights, and the clientele—men in suits and ties discussing business, women from the upper Eastside decked out in pearls and gloves, the latest hats, cool dropped-waist dresses. White-gloved waiters moved in and out of the tables carrying salads and luncheon plates.

Charlie kicked her empty stomach.

Blanche waved to someone across the room and Rosie followed her gaze to Pembrook. He met Blanche's wave with a smile. And then his gaze landed on Rosie.

She hadn't expected to appear so much different that she would elicit such a look of shock on Pembrook's lean face. He too appeared older, his brown hair thinner on top, perhaps more tone and confidence to his body as he stood and walked out to greet them.

“Look who I picked up off the street!” Blanche said.

She didn't have to phrase it quite that way. But Rosie urged out a smile. “Pem.” She leaned in for his kiss on her cheek.

“Rosie, you look—”

“Enormous,” Blanche said, giggling, and Rosie shot her a glare. “I can't help it. It's just…well, most women would be at home in this state.” Blanche sat down as Pembrook held her chair. She tugged off her gloves. “But apparently this isn't our little Rosie from Paris.” She leaned toward Pembrook as he held out the chair for Rosie. “She's run off with a baseball player!”

Did she have to phrase it like that? “Shh, Blanche.”

“Really?” Pembrook said, sitting down. He still had his gaze on her, as if he'd never seen a pregnant woman in public. Rosie grabbed her napkin and draped it over her belly. “Did you marry a Yankee?”

“He plays for the Giants.” Rosie didn't look at her watch. “Right now, in fact. I'm missing his game.”

“But I convinced her to dine with us,” Blanche said, wrapping her hand around Rosie's wrist. “We all need to catch up! Wait until I tell you about the wedding.”

Blanche raised her hand to summon the waiter and launched into the story.

Pembrook played with his fork, stealing glances at Rosie.

Rosie ordered lemonade, sipping it slowly, and then allowed Blanche to add a salad.

Second inning, for sure. If she didn't show up by the fourth, she might as well not go at all.

Her salad appeared, and she tried not to devour it. But when she looked up at Blanche's silence she realized she'd been inhaling her food. “The baby makes me hungry.”

Blanche leaned back, her Waldorf salad half-eaten, and pulled out a cigarette. “Really, Rosie, I never thought I'd see you like this.” She lit it, blew out smoke. “Somehow when you returned to New York, I thought I'd see your name on the marquee of the Majestic.”

Rosie put down her fork, wiped her mouth, the salad filling the crannies in her stomach. “I found something better,” she said, the words settling inside, deep and true.

Blanche quirked an eyebrow, glanced at Pem.

But his gaze fell beyond them and he raised his hand, waving.

Rosie steeled herself a moment before she turned.

He'd only grown more handsome. Taller, his dark hair clipped tight to his head, those smoky eyes dark and with a hint of danger, his smile at an angle that suggested he knew the game and how to play it. He wore a black suit, a matching black tie, and a white dress shirt, and she could smell his exotic French cologne from across the room.

Slick. Polished. Dashielle Parks.

Dash's gaze landed on Rosie and he slowed for a moment, clearly rattled.

She smiled at that. It raked up the old Rosie, the one who had once made him chase her across Paris, the one who knew how to walk into a room and elicit the attention of every man. She lifted her chin and extended her hand. “Dashielle Parks. What a pleasure.”

He ran a hand down his suit, smoothing his tie, a perfect smile forming on his lips. “Red Worth.” Then he took her hand, bent and kissed it.

She expected some tingles perhaps, warmth at his touch, but even as he stood and surveyed her with those burning eyes, she let Guthrie walk into her thoughts.

Guthrie, blond and passionate, with his easy smile, the way he could turn her world safe.

“Rosie Storme,” she corrected for him.

He said nothing, nonplussed, then nodded. “Of course.” His gaze traveled to her shape. “Congratulations?”

“Indeed,” she said, and allowed him to tuck her back into her chair.

He greeted Pem and Blanche then sat down, angling his chair toward her, his legs crossed. A waiter came over and he ordered a brandy, turning down a menu. “I already ate.” He pulled out his cigarette case and retrieved a Pall Mall, tapping it on the end of the slim silver box. “Married. With child. What other surprises does Rosie have for us?”

“She married a ballplayer,” Blanche supplied.

Dash lit his cigarette. “No wonder I didn't see your name in lights when I returned from Paris.”

Had he looked for her? She shook away the thought.

“I was going to be a headliner at Valerie's. And then I met Guthrie.”

“Swept you off your feet?” Dash wore mocking at the corners of his mouth.

“Something like that.” She refused to allow his ridicule and put on her best society girl, leaning forward to nestle her chin into her hand, her elbow perched on the table. “But enough about me. Dash, please tell me you're not a banker.”

Blanche giggled. “Heavens, no! Dash is making moving pictures.”

Rosie kept her smile.

Dash's gaze upon her never wavered, his eyes so dark they seemed to pin her. “I came back to New York looking for you, Red. Thought we could make a splash out West, in California.”

“You're making movies?” She kept her voice cool.

He flicked off his ash onto Blanche's plate. “I'm financing movies. But I have my say.” He smiled again, something she'd seen before. “For the right girl.”

She didn't have to work hard to read between his words. For
my
girl. The good-time girl, the one who swooned at the very mention of his name.

She leaned back, wiping her mouth. “Have you found her?”

He glanced at Pembrook, winked. “I'm still auditioning.”

Same old Dash. She picked up her lemonade as his brandy appeared. “Here's to Dash and his never-ending quest for the right girl.”

She drank, but Dash held onto his glass, his smile falling. “Red. Don't be like that. It wasn't my fault things went sour between us.”

She put down her lemonade. “Thanks for lunch, Blanche, but I am sure Guthrie's in the fifth inning by now.”

“Don't go, Rosie.” The sincerity of Dash's tone stopped her.

She met his gaze. “Dash, believe it or not, I'm not just a good-time gal. I'm Guthrie's lucky charm.”

A muscle pulled in his jaw, and his smile vanished as she got up and worked her way outside. The heat hit her like a slap, but she stepped out onto the street, trying to find her bearings. How could she have let so much game time pass?

She would have to take a cab. She motioned to the footman, intending to request a cab, when Dash pushed out of the doors behind her. “Red!”

She didn't turn. “Dashielle, really. I'm not angry—”

He caught her arm. “But I am! You left Paris, never let me explain, never let me think about your offer—”