Farley escorted Clair to his bottle-green Lincoln. She slid onto the passenger seat and looked up toward the suite’s window. She couldn’t see him, but she knew her father was looking down with a smile on his face. To make him happy she had dressed with care, donning a powder-blue skirt and jacket, clasping the opal brooch he’d given her for Christmas onto her high-laced collar. She had pinned her hair up neatly and topped it off with her cloche.
As Aunt June had suggested, she’d confronted her father again, but he insisted she go out with Farley. Since she loved her father, she decided to truly try. Still it stung. Since he had married for love, she had always assumed he would encourage her to also. They were going to a movie house. She’d heard them called “petting pantries,” and she hoped he wouldn’t try anything tawdry with her. Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans, hailed by the Times as a masterpiece, was playing.
Farley stopped to inspect the front of his car, took a handkerchief from the pocket of his three-piece suit, and rubbed a spot on the Lincoln’s hood. He nodded his head and put the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Let’s go.”
He jumped in, revved the motor, and maneuvered the car away from the curb.
“Watch out!” a man yelled as a double-decker bus swerved at the last second, missing them by an inch.
Clair put her hands on the dashboard. “Careful!”
Farley laughed, racing the car down the street into dense traffic. He honked the shiny bulb horn at a horse-drawn carriage. A-oo-gah!
He patted the steering wheel and started to brag about every little detail of his town car. “Yes, this baby cost me $4,800. Worth every penny. With aluminum pistons, it’s guaranteed to go at least seventy miles per hour.”
“Keep your eyes on the road!” Clair’s heart raced faster than the car.
He navigated between other automobiles, passing a policeman on a motorbike and another horse-drawn carriage.
He continued, “On our honeymoon, we’ll take this for a spin in the country and test that guarantee.”
“Our what?”
He eyed her. “Our honeymoon. Your father has agreed we’ll be married this spring.”
How could he make such plans behind her back? “But I haven’t agreed—you never even asked me.”
“Sorry.” He glanced at her. “Wanna get married?” He put his hand on her knee.
She pulled her leg away. “No.”
He kept right on blathering. “The 384-cubic-inch flathead V8 engine . . .”
Yes, like your own flat head. She examined him more closely. Actually, his head did look flat, even on all four sides, like a square, a blockhead, an ignoramus. Except for his god-awful cowlick. She had an urge to reach over and tamp it down but didn’t want to get grease on her gloves.
The Times Square traffic was thick, but Farley found a parking space, and they rushed into the movie palace. They squeezed into their seats right before the lights went down. The theater smelled of body odor and cheap cigars. She pulled her rose water–spritzed hankie from her clutch and held it to her nose.
A newsreel showed the invention of bumpers on the front of cars to decrease injuries and fatalities from accidents. First, they threw a dummy in front of a moving car, and then a man jumped in front of a moving truck. Both times the bodies glided along gently. Farley could sure use one of those on the front of his car.
He put his paw on her knee, but she pushed it away. Her mind went back to his words: her father had agreed they’d marry in the spring. She needed to convince him otherwise.
The movie’s title scrolled across the screen. Though talkies were becoming popular, this was a silent film—but instead of an orchestra, synchronized music emanated from speakers, a nice touch. The film flickered on. George O’Brien. She had seen him in The Silver Treasure and Paid to Love.
Farley groped for her fingers, and momentarily she let him hold on. His rough skin reminded her of a wet potato and she let go, rubbing the moisture on her hankie. Farley frowned and slumped with crossed arms.
As O’Brien rowed Janet Gaynor out onto the lake, Clair became captivated by the movie, and she wondered if he would really kill his wife. Later in the film, grief-stricken over what he had almost done to her, he asked for her forgiveness and plied her with flowers and gifts. What wonderful acting! Their bodies close, O’Brien gazed at Gaynor as if he truly loved her. Her large expressive eyes reminded Clair of Winnie.
Could her friend really have it? Clair wished she was with Winnie instead of Farley and wondered what was happening at Rudy’s. Clair bet the joint was jumping.
On the sidewalk after the movie, Farley suggested they go out for a bite to eat.
She yawned. “I’m not hungry, and besides, I’m tired.”
“We can sit for a while in the parlor.”
That’s the last thing she wanted to do.
“Mr. F!” a large man called, hurrying toward them.
Farley glanced at the man, took her arm, and rushed her toward his car. He turned on the motor and screeched away from the curb.
“Please try to drive slowly. Who was that?” she asked.
“No one.” He shook his head with a frown.
“No one?”
“I mean, no one I want to talk to tonight.” He turned and looked behind him.
“You sure?”
“Yes.” In silence for once, he drove along with the traffic.
“Have you ever been to a speakeasy?” She smiled at him.
“Clair!” He looked shocked. “Of course not. What would your father say if he knew you asked me that?” Farley snorted a laugh.
“He might not mind if I went with you.”
“Clair.” He shook his head. “Perhaps you aren’t the girl I thought you were.”
She grinned at him.
“Are you pulling my leg?”
“Of course.” What a fuddy-duddy.
He sped up his pace. This time, she closed her eyes and pretended to be on a roller coaster. At the hotel, he walked her up to the suite.
“Good night.” She stood with her back to the closed door.
“You’re so pretty.” His eyes scanned sideways, and he put his hand on her arm.
“May I come in?”
“We might wake Father,” she whispered. “You’d better go home.”
He closed his eyes and leaned toward her for a kiss. She considered it for a very brief moment. That way, she could tell her father she’d tried. Plus, she’d never been kissed before, and she was curious. She studied his straggly, untrimmed mustache, clotted with wax, and her stomach roiled. She leaned back and pushed him away. He stopped, confused, and she quickly said good night and slipped inside.
Her first kiss should be something special. To make that happen, she might need to push Farley away several more times. She would never be able to kiss him. But would he always take no for an answer?