Beautiful Days (7 page)

“What was this?” Cordelia gasped.

“A bank, of course.” Charlie's footsteps echoed as he moved across the floor. As soon as he said it, Cordelia found that she was able to identify the smell of money, among the other odors of dust and mildew that permeated the place. “Those were the tellers' windows. Small bank, not very good—they went belly up last year.”

“You mean the bank lost their money?” Cordelia couldn't help but smirk at the thought. She understood how a farmer whose crop is ruined can go belly up, or a family that has begun to live far beyond its means. In Union, there had been only one bank, and everybody in town had put their money into it, and so the idea of a bank short on cash seemed to her if not exactly funny, then at least absurd.

“They lost all their money, but you're going to make us lots of money here. I figure we can have the bartenders behind those teller windows—that way, if there's ever a raid, they can just the shut the windows and have enough time to slip out the back way before any seizures are made.”

Cordelia nodded. She was listening to him, but also already she was imagining the nights that would be had in a place like this. Girls would dance onstage, and the music would be fast and loose, and the chatter animated and witty and full of the life of the city. She had come a long way to witness nights like those, and now she felt a little rush thinking that she would have some role in creating them. That had been her father's genius—he'd been a master of staging the sort of evenings where people wanted to drink his wares in vast quantities. On one of his final days, he'd told her he wanted to teach her the business. Now she would make good on that wish.

“You really think I can run a speakeasy?”

Her footsteps echoed as she moved across the floor, peeking into corners, imagining where the tables and stage would go, her sense of elation growing the more she explored.

“You'll have help, but one thing you can be sure of, people will come if they know they're going to see you.”

Cordelia turned away from this suggestion uncomfortably and did another quick spin through the room, taking in the metallic grates over the windows, the worn colored pieces in the floor, the few old mahogany desks that had been shoved to the corner but looked not so worn-down despite that. The high windows allowed a pale blue light to filter in—there was something almost heavenly in that color—and for a moment, despite herself, she thought Darius might be with them. Something was present, and it sent a shiver rippling across her shoulders.

“We should go have a drink to Dad,” she said when she turned around again.

“You're right about that.”

So they went to a crooked little place around the corner. Inside it had all the warm décor of a farm shed, and everyone was smoking and talking so loudly that no one voice could be distinguished from another. Cordelia enjoyed her hour there, and when Charlie said it was time to go, they stepped outside to a sky turning a plum shade that made the neon signs glow like magic. Someone must have tipped off the press, for they were photographed jumping into their waiting car. And while this might once have distressed her, she now viewed it as a very good joke, and thought with pleasure of the possibility of Max Darby opening his morning papers and seeing her in her pretty dress over the caption:
BOOTLEGGER'S DAUGHTER SEEN OUT ON THE TOWN
.

Chapter 7

FROM THE SECOND FLOOR OF DOGWOOD CAME A constant ringing of billiards, the cue ball hitting its mark or scattering the other fifteen. The parlor there was always filled with Charlie's gang, hanging around in undershirts and running the electric fans, waiting for night to fall and their real work to begin. They slept odd hours on old mattresses in out-of-the-way rooms. Meanwhile, the kitchen was ruled by a one-legged man whose specialties included egg sandwiches and spaghetti and meatballs. All of this had always seemed novel and extraordinary to Astrid. Now that she was a resident of Dogwood it was soon to change, of course.

Already that morning she had convinced Len, the cook, to wear a hairnet when he was in the kitchen, and had taught him how to cut cucumbers paper-thin for sandwiches with the crusts removed. She had recruited Danny, the sweetest tempered and most impressionable of Charlie's men, to help her investigate an old barn on the property, and then he and the new man, the vaguely Italian-looking one, had set about clearing it of debris and rusted equipment. A quick call to one of her grandmother Donal's charities determined that old brass beds from a nearby home for wayward youth could be had by the dozen, and would be delivered tomorrow free of charge. The boys would be much happier sleeping there than in the main house, she told Charlie (who was on the phone at the time, and may not have heard her). After that, she'd found a handsome white embroidered tablecloth to cover the chipped white paint of the iron table on the south verandah, and also an old wooden bowl that perhaps came from the barn, which, when she filled it with wildflowers, made a lovely sort of rustic centerpiece.

It had been a busy and most satisfying morning—she had woken far earlier than she was accustomed to and dressed in a simple cotton fawn-colored shirtdress, tied low on the hips with a woven belt. For a moment she paused on the threshold of the verandah and gazed out on the sparkling afternoon, the rolling green vistas, and her two best friends, who now also happened to be her roommates, drinking fresh-squeezed juice.

“Lunch!” she very nearly squealed, so pleased was she with the whole scene.

“Oh! How
nice
!” Letty exclaimed appreciatively, taking the platter of little finger sandwiches from Astrid's hands so that the new mistress of Dogwood could arrange herself in the empty chair. Letty wore a sweet sailor-style blouse and white skirt, and her short black hair was still sleek from the shower.

“Thank you, darling,” Cordelia added, as Astrid put a kiss on each girl's cheekbone.

“Just perfect.” Astrid clapped her hands and sighed with happy purpose and reached forward to take one of the soft, crisp, buttery pieces between her fingers. “Now—what have you been talking about, what did I miss?”

“I was telling her about the club.” Cordelia paused to rearrange her sleeveless, square-necked striped jersey dress, which was clinging to her skin in the afternoon heat despite its looseness. “Charlie found the most beautiful place, and I was asking her where she thought the stage ought to go, and imagining how wonderful her voice will sound there.”

Letty's slight shoulders rose excitedly toward her ears and her wide blue eyes shone. “Can you imagine?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Astrid took another sandwich and gave Letty a steady look. “I can imagine it perfectly.
I
heard you singing the other night. You won't be able to play the bashful ingénue much longer, you know.”

“Oh, yes, you're right of course.” Letty nodded, the short black curtains of her hair swinging exuberantly. “It's only—you've got no idea how far away Ohio seems right now, and how long I've always dreamed of this.”

“Well,” Astrid said, smiling lavishly and raising her tall glass of juice, “here's to Letty Larkspur at Grey's Cabaret, or whatever you're going to call it.”

“To Letty,” Cordelia seconded, clinking her glass with Astrid's, “who I always knew would be a star.”

“Thank you,” Letty whispered, “that's so—”

“What in the world!” Astrid cut her off. Something very strange on the horizon had stolen her attention and for a moment she could only furrow her brow and let her mouth stand open. “What in the world is that?”

At first it was just a speck, but then it grew larger, and Astrid put her hand against her forehead so that she wouldn't have to squint so much, and then the breathing of the two girls on either side of her ceased, or at least she wasn't able to hear it anymore over the sounds of the engine. The plane whooshed down over the pool, and just as Astrid was about to ask again what it could possibly be about, Cordelia stood and descended the wide steps and strode across the grass. She did not seem in the least intimidated by the frightful metallic whirring on the nose of the plane—Astrid called to her to be careful, but by then she was out of earshot, the blue-and-white leaves of her skirt swishing against her determined calves.

The various men charged with the security of Dogwood had taken note of the disturbance. Windows on the second floor of the main house opened, guns were drawn behind tree trunks, shouting could be heard from the edges of the property as Darius's daughter crossed the lawn. With a gesture of precocious authority, the girl in question communicated that she would be handling the intruder herself.

“What do you think you're doing here?” Cordelia shouted over the roar of the engine, which rippled her skirt and hair. She was so angry that every part of her seemed to almost shake, as though all of her might come undone and float away on the thick summer air. Max cut the engine, and the airplane quieted. He hopped to the ground, but did not seem any more likely to answer her. “Besides ruining my grass,” she added sharply.

He pushed back his goggles and stared at her. Then, without giving any indication of having appreciated the surrounding scene, he said: “Don't you think you have enough of it?”

“That's right—I forgot how easy it is for you to be careless with other people's things.”

Max averted his gaze. Against her will, Cordelia found herself thinking that he was rather good-looking in a simple way, his plain white T-shirt tucked into the army-style pants, his utilitarian boots, the compact strength of his torso and arms. His features were smooth and symmetrical as though he himself were a flying machine, and though he was barely taller than she, Cordelia felt certain that if he wanted to, he could easily pick her up. There was no way he would ever move silkily across a dance floor, as Thom Hale might, and into some silly slip of a girl's affections, and she couldn't help but grudgingly respect him for that.

“I'm sorry about the grass,” he said in a voice that was quieter and less forceful than any she had yet heard him use.

Contrition was not what Cordelia had been expecting. She crossed her arms over her chest and tried to muster an appropriate retort.

“And I'm sorry about the other day,” he went on before she could manage one. “I knew we'd meet again. But that wasn't how I imagined it.”

“No, I bet not. You'd rather disparage me in my own home, all the better to spit on the spoils of bootlegging, is that it? That's how the truly righteous do it, I suppose.”

“I'm not righteous.” His blue eyes met hers and didn't flinch. “I just don't care for your kind of fun.”

A sigh of disbelief escaped Cordelia's lips and she rolled her eyes. “Perhaps you mean you don't care for fun?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well.” Cordelia cleared her throat. “Now that we've got that clear, do you want to tell me why you've used my lawn as a landing strip?”

“I wanted to tell you I was sorry. For the way I behaved on the Fourth. And thank you more properly for saving my life.” He glanced up toward the house, where Astrid and Letty were surely gawking. Cordelia refused to look. When he returned his gaze to her, he put his hand out—either pointing at her or reaching for her hand, Cordelia couldn't be sure. “You can't think I take it lightly, and in time I'll make it up to you. I've been turning over what you said to me at the Beaumonts', that you know who you are—I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't respect that, no matter what I think of your family business. You see, I am impressed by what you did.”

Cordelia cocked her head back, wishing that she weren't so pleased with that praise. But it didn't escape her that he hadn't actually said he was sorry—he had merely stated his intention to apologize.

“Impressed?” She made a scoffing noise. “I didn't grow up like these White Cove girls, you know.” It was the first time she had ever spoken with pride of her other life, and though she had conjured this rougher history as a kind of defense against his judgments, she was surprised to see him soften at the mention.

“I read about that,” he said earnestly. “I guess that's partly why I'm impressed.”

So the high and mighty Max Darby went to the newspapers to find out things about people, just as she had. The corners of Cordelia's mouth flickered against her will. “You must have very low standards for being impressed.”

“On the contrary.” He gave a little bow. “So—does this mean you've accepted my apology?”

“Maybe,” she answered reluctantly.

“And you'll let me properly thank you for what you did that night?”

Now Cordelia did lose control of her stony facade and a smile crept over her face. He smiled back. It was the same rare smile she'd seen in the hospital waiting room, the beautiful creases emerging perpendicular to the corners of his mouth in his tanned skin, the sincerity in his eyes that seemed also to convey how unusual it was for him to share this particular facial expression with the world.

“I guess it depends how you intend to thank me—I
do
like fun, you know.”

“Yes, I know that, too, but I think I am capable of entertaining even the famous Cordelia Grey.”

“Is that so?” Cordelia was about to rejoin, but her flirtatiousness waned when she saw her brother.

“This is private property!” Charlie shouted as he approached across the lawn with Jones just behind him.

Cordelia glanced from her brother to Max, who had stepped back toward his plane and drawn himself up. The metal fuselage was so reflective that she could not make out his expression.

“You're not wanted here!” Charlie's voice reached a fevered pitch.

“Listen, young man, we have armed men all over this property,” Jones said, coming to a halt just behind Charlie. “I'd hate to have to shoot you down.”

Max glanced at Cordelia. She was tempted to intervene, but the pilot's gaze was preternaturally steady in the face of this threat. She felt awed by his display of grit and didn't want to meddle. “All due respect, I don't think a criminal much wants the attention he'd buy himself by shooting down a national treasure on his property.” He blinked once, but the rest of him was unflinching.

“Really—this talk of people shooting each other down!” Cordelia smiled wide and stepped forward, putting herself between Max and the other two men. “Let's stop bluffing, shall we?”

The corner of Max's mouth twitched, and she saw it, and for a moment they were a secret two-man team. “I didn't mean any harm. I only wanted to see if the lady might want to take an airplane ride—”

“No,” Charlie shot back hotly. “I don't think my sister wants to fly with you.”

“Actually, I'm rather curious.” Cordelia glanced at her brother. “I'd like to know what this flying is like.”

“Cord,” Charlie hissed, snatching her wrist and pulling her away from the pilot. They took several long, fast strides before he stopped and gave her a serious stare. “You can't fly with him.”

“Why not?” A disbelieving sigh escaped Cordelia's mouth. “He's not going to hurt me. I saved his life!”

“Yes, but . . .” Charlie sighed and let go of her. He turned, narrowing his eyes against the bright sunlight. “Listen, we've got work to do. After what the Hales did to Dad, why should they not try for you or me, too? And I wish you wouldn't go up in that damn contraption.”

“Oh, Charlie!” A genuine laugh bubbled up from her throat. “Is this because you're afraid of heights?”

Charlie's eyes lit up with fury. “No! But it's no time for reckless living, and anyway, we've got to go into the city. We're opening a speakeasy in a few weeks, or don't you remember?”

“Yes, I remember.” Cordelia let out a sad breath, and cast her gaze over at Max. He was staring impassively at the grand house behind them as Jones lingered threateningly by his side. A few days ago, she had been so excited to build something that would honor her father and bring her back into life, and she did badly want to grab at that feeling again after her long spell of self-pity. But then she looked at the airplane, and Max's taut stance, and she wanted above all else to see the world as he saw it. Changing tack, she clasped her hands together and opened her eyes wide. “Oh, please, Charlie . . . please?”

The begging must have softened him, and after a glance backward at the intruder, he threw his arm around her shoulder. Together they walked back toward the plane. “Only for an hour, hear me? And when you get back we're going straight to the city, got it?”

“Yes! I promise.” She gave Max a sly smile as they returned. “Mr. Darby, I'm yours for exactly one hour.”

Max stepped forward and offered his hand to Charlie, who reluctantly shook it. “You have my word I'll take good care of her.”

“All right,” Charlie said, turning away. “All right.”

“That means you can land on our property once more,” Jones said. “After that, God help you.”

“One hour!” Charlie yelled as both men retreated.

By then Cordelia had climbed into the cockpit, and Max was strapping her in and handing her aviator goggles. A stoniness came into his features as he went to work on a complicated board of levers and dials. The whole body of the plane began to shake and rumble noisily as they sped forward across the lawn. Just when her mind had drifted from the purpose of the thing, she felt the ground drop away, and before she could stop herself, she had reached out for Max's forearm.