Beautiful Days (14 page)

Chapter 13

THE LAND OF NIGHT IS FULL OF FAMILIAR FACES, WHICH is why young people, the girls in particular, are paid such lavish attention, given the best tables, and shepherded in past hungry crowds. They are new, which is solid currency after the sun goes down and the streets fill up with lost souls seeking whimsy and distraction. And so it was no wonder the way eyes followed Cordelia Grey. Astrid was very proud to have recognized a star the instant she appeared in her midst, and was happy to be slightly blinded by her wattage as they walked, a brash foursome, past the fleets of limousines on Park Avenue and down the steps into the ground floor of a brick townhouse that appeared staid enough from the outside, except for the windowpanes, which were rattled by an uncommon amount of noise rising from beneath the parlor level.

“Ooooo!” Astrid squealed when she saw the mattresses piled high in the big back room and covered with several layers of gauzy white coverlets. She always admired a clever trick, and though she was sure this décor hadn't cost a thing, it looked almost fancy with the murals on the walls, which depicted a sylvan scene framed by diaphanous trompe l'oeil window treatments. The light from the ceiling fixture was muted with a silk parachute that drooped lazily over the tightly packed guests. She hadn't been to a place like this since Charlie took over the business. “What is it,” she crowed, “a speak or a bordello?”

“They call it The Bedroom,” Billie said, surveying the scene. There were men with no-good faces leaning against the walls in the low light and girls wearing old-fashioned Edwardian nightgowns circulating with trays full of drinks. They weren't showing much skin, of course, but it was just the right amount of naughtiness, having waitresses dressed in their intimates, and Astrid's eyes shone to be out again among people who did thrilling, roguish things. Once she'd been reunited with her girlfriends, she had more or less forgotten her anger. She was satisfied by the notion that if Charlie wasn't going to appreciate the way the silver dress hugged her figure, someone here would.

Victor had spoken barely a word since they left Dogwood. His eyes twitched nervously, and he insisted on accompanying the girls inside instead of waiting in the car. “You are going to get me in a world of trouble, Miss Astrid,” he said tensely as Billie whispered to the doorman.

Once inside, he refused to act like a normal customer and stationed himself by the door, watching the four girls at a distance. Astrid gave him a dirty look and then decided to ignore him, sinking into one of the mattresses, patting it so that Letty would drop down beside her, and demanding that Billie get them some champagne. Billie gave her a wry smile, but she enjoyed obliging in these situations; shortly thereafter she returned with a bottle.

From behind wide-brimmed champagne glasses, the girls observed the room. There were men wearing tiny spectacles who looked like they spent their daylight hours in libraries, and debs in silks like Astrid and her friends, and musicians with holes in the elbows of their coats, and men with gold watch chains who flashed their billfolds and insisted on buying drinks for everyone else.

Just when she was growing tired of watching other people dance, a pack of college boys came in and fixed their attention on the four girls from White Cove. One of them—a tall, fair-haired boy with a weak chin and V-neck sweater—gave Astrid a wink, but she turned her profile to him and smiled instead at Letty. A vision of what they must look like materialized in her mind—Cordelia regal in her column of aubergine, the beads of Letty's dress twinkling in the low light, Billie rakish in her trousers, Astrid's whole self as soft and layered as a rose, their slender arms draped over one another's shoulders, their knees inclining toward each other—and she wished that there had been a photographer present so that she could have that picture of her friends in buoyant bloom preserved forever.

“I don't know that those fellows are up to our standards, do you?” she whispered to Letty, who was sitting beside her.

The corners of Letty's mouth curled up in nervous excitement. “How can you tell?”

“Well . . .” Both girls turned to assess the five boys who stood a few feet away, shooting glances in their direction. “They aren't
real
men, of course. But they might do to pass the time awhile.”

“Come on, will you dance?” the boy with the fair hair and weak chin called out to Astrid.

She regarded him with a patient, discriminating air, before twisting herself around again and flashing her eyes at her elfin friend. “What do you say, darling? I'm not going to dance unless you do.”

Letty's eyes glittered and her white shoulders rose and fell. “I do like that fellow Grady . . .” she said seriously. “But I suppose a dance doesn't really mean anything, does it?”

“Hmmmm . . .” Astrid lengthened her neck and pretended to be considering their suitors. “Very well, we'll dance, but we don't come cheap, you know!” she announced with a note of challenge in her voice.

The fair-haired boy's face lit up and he put his hand out to pull her to her feet. One of his friends came forward to draw Letty onto the dance floor, and a third reached for Cordelia.

“Aren't you coming?” Astrid called over her shoulder to Billie, as the fair-haired boy draped an arm at the small of her back and grasped her hand in his.

“No, thank you.” Billie was leaning against the wall, her legs long in front of her, her ankles crossed nonchalantly. “I know those boys from Columbia, and I've danced with them all before. You go on ahead.”

If there was something a tad dismissive in what her stepsister said, Astrid didn't let it bother her. The fair-haired boy looked terribly pleased to be partnered with her, and he moved her around in a theatrical waltz that no doubt raised the eyebrows of Charlie's man, but which made her feel alive and girlish and as though nothing in the world mattered very much. In the silver frock she looked like a waterfall spilling between the men dressed in dark clothes, and she could see Cordelia in the deep purple being twirled around by one of the college boy's friends, and thought that there was nothing wrong with what she was doing so long as Cordelia was doing the same thing, too.

Just when Astrid was beginning to grow bored with her fellow, she found herself passed to the brown-haired one in the blue blazer who had been Cordelia's first partner.

“I'm Dickie,” he told her, as he danced them deeper into the room.

“What a silly name,” Astrid rejoined, softening the comment with her smile.

“You're not thinking of leaving yet?” His big mouth hung open even after he was done speaking, like a child's, so that she could see his fleshy tongue.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You were looking at the door.”

“Well, I'm here now, aren't I?”

He grinned and steered her on through the crowd. She was just beginning to grow bored with him, too, when she saw Peachy Whitburn coming through the door, her strawberry blond hair recently marcelled and her sporty, upper-crust mien obscured somewhat by the heaps of black jet she wore.

“Peachy!” Astrid squealed, abandoning her partner and throwing her arms around the other girl's neck.

“Darling.”

They blew kisses at opposite cheeks, and Astrid pulled her toward the mattress where Billie was holding court. Letty had just landed for a respite, but she was otherwise occupied: Two of the Columbia boys had managed to ensnare her in conversation. They flanked her on either side and were making her blush with their questions.

“Such a treat to see you, darling, what are you doing here?” Astrid asked, handing the newcomer a glass of champagne.

“Well, it's the place of the moment, isn't it?” Peachy paused to sip—cautiously, as her position made it a bit challenging.

“Indeed, it is,” Billie interjected, before returning to her previous conversation, which was about horse racing. “For now, anyway.”

“But what are
you
doing here? I haven't seen you out in ages. Everyone says you've gone domestic.”

“Oh, yes.” Astrid dropped her head back and let a wave of fluffy blond hair fall away from her face. “I have, and it's divine. But Cordelia and Charlie are opening a club, don't you know? It's a lot of work, but they need to be out on the town, seeing and being seen, learning what drinks are being served and what music played in all the other speaks, you know. I'm just along for the ride—I'd do anything to help my family, of course. The opening will be soon, you must come, let me just ask Cordelia when . . .” She trailed off and turned her head toward the thicket of young people filling up the main space of the room, squealing and throwing their arms up in the air and shimmying their whole bodies. Though her eyes scanned the faces carefully, she could not seem to find Cordelia among them.

At first this seemed funny: “Oh, you know Cord, she's always running away,” she brushed it off to Peachy. But then it began to seem strange.

“Hold this a moment, would you?” she asked Peachy. Once she was unburdened of her champagne she extended her hand to Dickie, who was loitering nearby. He obliged in lifting her up and appeared only a little perturbed when she walked away without thanking him. She went straight to Victor and whispered in his ear, demanding to know, if he really
were
keeping such a careful eye on things, where her friend had gone off to?

As it happened, Cordelia had not gone far. She had only disliked the familiar way the fair-haired boy had swayed her on the dance floor and had felt hot with all those other people crowded into the small space. The ladies' lounge was on the second floor and she'd had to make her way through a warren of rooms to find it. Once there, she didn't immediately want to leave its tranquil, red velvet environs. She splashed water on her face and repinned her hair back, so that it framed her face in loose, sun-streaked waves.

Once she had collected herself, she turned away from the mirror, and came face-to-face with a well-kept woman with green eyes. Aside from a few lines, her skin had a youthful tautness; she had the gaze of experience, but she was dressed in such an au courant way that it was impossible to place her age exactly. Her dark hair was cut the way girls of twenty wore it, short and full around her face.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you,” Cordelia replied, hoping that she did not seem intimidated. “Do I know you?”

“Not exactly.” The woman extended a ring-bedecked hand. “My name is Mona Alexander—perhaps you've heard of me?”

“Yes,” was all Cordelia could manage to reply. Charlie had told her about a Mona Alexander who used to be their father's lady friend.

“Your father was very special to me, and I was very special to him. He set me up as a singer, you know, when I had nothing. And now I am almost as famous as he used to be.”

“Oh.” Cordelia swallowed, unsure how to reply to such a comment.

“I'm sorry he's gone, kid. I cried for three days when I heard. What a miserable blow that must have been for you.” Mona didn't look like the type to dispense sympathy, but her lips did flatten out in what was perhaps her closest approximation of a sympathetic expression. “Anyway, I'm not the kind to go in for any mothering malarkey—but I've read a little about you, and I have a soft spot in my black heart for girls like us.”

“Like us?”

“Girls who come from nothing, but are not nothing themselves.”

“Oh.” It wasn't easy, but Cordelia managed to hold her gaze when she said: “Thank you.”

“Don't take any bull, hear me? And you can always call on me if you need any advice. I'd do anything for Darius Grey, and anything for you, too.” The woman produced a card from some invisible pocket and gave it to Cordelia. “Now go enjoy your evening, dear.”

“Thank you.” Cordelia fought the urge to curtsy, and went out into the hall. She continued on past the wood-paneled walls of what had once been a swank private house, down a stairway, toward the room with the mattresses and murals. Encountering the woman her father used to keep company with had unnerved her, but it felt good to be recognized for what she was, and there was something charismatic about Mona Alexander that reminded her how exciting it was to be out in the world.

When she came down into the small room with the bar in it, she heard her full name, “Cordelia Grey,” pronounced in a suave, intentional tone. A cold current went down her spine. She had not seen Thom Hale since that day at the Beaumonts', and he had not become less handsome in the intervening weeks. He was dressed in a tailored suit that was either black or navy—she couldn't tell in the light—and his pale brown collared shirt was only a shade darker than his lightly tanned skin.

“Cordelia, I'm glad I ran into you.”

He was the same as always—neat copper hair parted on the side, his clothes fitting him rakishly. In one hand he held a half-full drink, an amber liquid with a dark cherry in it, and in the other a recently lit cigarette. His manner—calm, urbane, never inconvenienced—struck her as especially deplorable. If she'd known how to slap a man, she might have slapped Thom now.

“I'm glad because—” He broke off and looked around him. “Would you like a drink?”

She shook her head.

“All right.” He dragged on his cigarette. “I'm glad because I wanted to tell you that you must be careful.”

Having nothing in particular to say to him, she raised her eyebrows and waited for his elaboration.

“Careful because—because it would be terrible if anything happened to you.”

Cordelia stepped toward Thom. “Are you threatening me?”

“No!” he said and took a quick sip of his drink. “But it gets more dangerous every day. I don't know how much your brother tells you—but he burned down one of our warehouses yesterday. You don't think my father would let a thing like that go by without retribution, do you?”