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Palmer House was all atwitter Saturday evening as Sarah prepared to attend her friend’s musicale. Sarah was to wear her best dress, an elegant hand-me-down from Emily Van der Pol’s women’s group—a soft, midnight-blue gossamer gown with exquisite jet beading along the high neckline and around the embroidered bodice.
Ruth and Pansy fussed over Sarah’s toilette and buttoned every one of the lengthy line of petite jet buttons down Sarah’s back and along her tight gigot sleeves. Blythe and Frances polished Sarah’s black boots until they shone like mirrors—then insisted on buttoning them up Sarah’s slim ankles for her.
“What will you do with your hair, Sarah?” Frances asked.
“My hair? Why, nothing out of the ordinary, really. I shall freshly braid it and wear it as I always do.”
“Perhaps a flower?” Pansy proposed.
“A posy from Pansy?” Sarah teased.
“May I suggest a rose from Rose?” a familiar voice announced in the doorway. “I must credit Mr. Wheatley for this beauty, though. It was he, not I, who cut it and trimmed off the thorns for you.”
The girls gushed their approval over the soft yellow bloom.
“It is the perfect color,” Ruth pronounced.
Sarah set to work and, within a few minutes, had achieved the raven crown above the striking peak in her hairline. When she had finished, Rose twined the rose’s stem into Sarah’s thick strands, nestling the yellow bloom within her plaited tresses.
Sarah stared in the mirror. “I am presentable but, sadly, quite out of fashion.”
“Well, I do not give a fig for what fashion dictates,” Frances retorted. “You will outshine every woman there.”
“Oh, yes. You are so beautiful, Sarah,” Blythe sighed.
Blythe’s adoring comment made the girls giggle, but Rose agreed with her. “Sarah is beautiful inside and out. True beauty is unfading; it blossoms on the inside and shines forth on the outside.”
Sarah beamed at her. “And that is why you will always be a great beauty, Miss Rose.”
The girls laughed when Rose blushed. “Heavens. How you turn this old woman’s head, Sarah.”
When the girls declared Sarah “perfect,” she took up her shawl, and they traipsed downstairs together.
Mr. Wheatley, stooped and frail, leaned up against the balustrade, waiting for Sarah to come down. His incorrigible white hair stuck out from his head in fluffy clumps; his bushy white brows resembled the two lesser satellites of his tufted pate, but his old eyes shone with approval when Sarah descended.
“A rare one, our Sarah,” he mumbled.
Sarah put her cheek to his. “I take only your compliments to heart, my sweet friend.”
“We been through a lot together, missy.”
“I could not have endured those early days without your shoulder to lean on, dear Mr. Wheatley.”
Sarah teared up, and he patted her back. “There, there.”
Blythe held out her hankie.
“Do not cry, Sarah. The young gentleman will be here directly.”
Pansy giggled. “You do not want to appear with a red nose, do you?”
Sarah sniffed back her tears. “Most certainly not.”
***
SPEAKING OF THE YOUNG gentleman . . .
When Blake Williams bounded up the porch steps and dropped the heavy brass knocker on the solid front door, the sound reverberated throughout what he assumed was the house’s foyer. He was perplexed, then, as he languished several minutes with no response.
Could my knock have gone unnoticed?
He had his answer when a grizzled octogenarian with a head of uncommonly wild hair hauled the door open at a tedious rate and—just as tediously—examined him from head to toe.
“Good evening, young sir.”
Young sir? Who says that these days?
Besides which, Blake could read the old man’s thoughts like a book: A dandy, Blake was confident the butler had concluded from his protracted evaluation.
Blake sniffed. Dandy, indeed. I shall take that as a compliment—coming from an old geezer such as this.
Blake was confident that he was outfitted in the latest of evening fashion: snowy-white dress shirt topped by charcoal-gray sateen vest, black evening coat with tails, and scarlet tie. White spats over glossy black shoes peeped from beneath the hem of his charcoal trousers. He removed his sleek top hat and placed it in the servant’s hands.
“Good evening. Blake Williams calling for Miss Sarah Ellinger.”
“This way, sir.”
Blake entered the house, waited an eon for the aging butler to close the door behind them and lead the way, then he followed the man—at an injured snail’s pace—through the wide entryway, then to the right into the house’s great room . . . where at least a dozen appraising faces turned their focus on him, all female with the exception of one male.
Blake could not know that Marit, after tucking her children into their beds, had declared she would not miss viewing the gentleman caller “for the vorld,” nor could he know that her husband (not to be left out of such exciting doings) had accompanied her. The unsuspecting Blake only knew that around twelve sets of eyes stared without comment or expression at their polished—and quite bemused—visitor.
A slender, plainly dressed matron, with calm eyes and a sweet smile, stood and greeted him. “Good evening, Mr. Williams. I am Mrs. Rose Thoresen. Welcome to our home.”
Blake executed a perfect bow. “Blake Williams, at your service, Mrs. Thoresen. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
He scanned the room and its unpretentious furnishings, taking in the bevy of young women (as modestly attired as Mrs. Thoresen), and wondered with idle curiosity with which of these simple naïfs he had been saddled. He attempted to identify his objective unobtrusively but failed in spectacular fashion—as the amused exchanges between the girls announced.
“Mr. Williams, will you sit with us?”
Blake jerked his attention back to the matron. She indicated a chair of bulging springs and dubious origin—a chair to which Blake was loath to trust his freshly pressed trousers.
And he had not intended to dally about; however, he could find no well-mannered way to decline her invitation—an amiable enough request—which was not, in patent actuality, a request he could refuse.
“Thank you, madam.”
As Blake assumed the indicated seat, he suffered an uncomfortable revelation: He would not be leaving in the expedited fashion he had planned on. No. He was about to be questioned.
Questioned? He swore under his breath while preserving his smile. Interrogated, I should think! This old biddy will press and prod me like a Christmas goose—while the taxi’s meter runs unabated, into the bargain. Thank you kindly, Lola.
“Er, you have a charming house, Mrs. Thoresen.”
“You are kind. It is a pleasant home for our family.”
Family?
Perplexed, and experiencing a sensation much as a bug under glass might, Blake skimmed the room once more. Oh, without a doubt: Every eye was fastened upon him.
He coughed politely. “I see. You are Miss Ellinger’s mother, then?”
Giggles warbled among the watching women, but the penetrating gaze of the sole man in the room (other than that decrepit old husk of a butler still holding his hat) skewered Blake with blatant distrust.
Blake swallowed. I do hope that clod is not Miss Ellinger’s brother. Ye gads! He is half the size of a mountain. I should not wish to cross him.
The matron smiled and repeated his question. “Am I Sarah’s mother? Not directly, no. However, Sarah is the daughter of my heart.”
Blake nodded. “I understand.” What? No, I do not understand.
“You see, we live as a family here at Palmer House, although none of us are related by blood.”
“Ah, of course.” The devil, you say—I have stumbled into a commune. A cult!
“Mr. Williams, would you tell me something of yourself?”
“Myself?” Blake’s mind momentarily shut down.
“Yes, if you please.”
Again, not a request to be passed over.
“Certainly, madam.” Mind how you go, Blake, my boy. Do not make a hash of this.
“I was born and raised in Denver, Mrs. Thoresen. My family made its fortune in timber, but we now operate a number of financial institutions. Perhaps you have heard of us? Williams Savings and Loan?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Ah, good, good. Well, I studied business for two years in Boston and now work in the family enterprise.”
“How nice. And you are Miss Ellinger’s escort for the evening?”
“I—” Careful, Blake. “Miss Ellinger is, technically, Lola’s—that is, Miss Pritchard’s guest. But as Miss Pritchard will be performing, I have hired a car and have agreed to escort Miss Ellinger to the, er, performance.”
“The invitation did not provide a location.”
“It is the private home of a well-known family. I should be happy to write out the address if you wish, madam?”
“Yes, thank you. That would be very kind of you.” Surely, you jest.
But she did not. He dutifully took paper and pen from her and scribbled the address.
“And you will also be bringing Miss Ellinger home?”
“Either I or Miss Pritchard will hire a car to bring her home.”
“And what time shall we expect you, Mr. Williams?”
Blast it all, Lola! But he smiled amiably and nodded.
“Do you have a preferred time, madam?” Because, what else could he say?
“I think midnight appropriate, but only given the late start of the concert.”
Concert? Late start? Do play along, Blake. The taxi’s meter is running.
He inclined his head. “Of course. As you wish, Mrs. Thoresen.”
The matron stood and extended a handshake. “It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Williams.”
Blake stood, took her hand, and bowed over her fingers. “Again, it was my pleasure, Mrs. Thoresen.”
“And may I introduce Miss Ellinger?”
Heavenly days. At last!
He unbent and discovered a raven-haired beauty at his elbow. For a moment he was struck dumb by her loveliness and her simple, tasteful—albeit dated—attire.
“Blake Williams, at your service, Miss Ellinger.”
“How do you do, Mr. Williams?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
Every eye in the room watched with vicarious enthusiasm.
Good grief; what an exposition.
“Shall we be on our way, Miss Ellinger?”
“Yes. I am ready.”
“And do you have your invitation, Miss Ellinger?”
“I do, thank you.”
Blake retrieved his hat from the doddering old butler and took Sarah’s arm. He managed to maintain his composure as they waited for the “dry old stick” to totter to the door and wrench it open with the last of his strength.
When Blake was assured the elderly man would not, from the effort, fall dead at his feet, he escorted Sarah down the long walkway and beyond the gate. There, he released her arm and held the door for her to climb into the taxi’s back seat. Then he joined her.
***
BLAKE WILLIAMS HELD his middle, chuckling, then laughing aloud as the cab pulled away. “Well! What an ordeal and a spectacle that was. It was good for a hoot, but I am relieved to have it behind me.”
Sarah could think of no response, so an uncomfortable silence followed. She studied him out of the corner of her eye. After minutes had passed, she ventured to speak on what she hoped was a safe topic. “How long have you known Miss Pritchard, Mr. Williams?”
“Please call me Blake. Mr. Williams is my father. And by the by? No one calls Lola ‘Miss Pritchard’ or even Lorraine.”
Sarah cleared her throat. “I see. Ah, can you say how far our drive is . . . Blake?”
“Not far. Perhaps another twenty minutes. I am certain you are familiar with our destination—the Polk-Stafford mansion?”
“Oh, my goodness. We are going there?”
“Sure. Justin Stafford hosts such ‘dos’ most Saturdays.”
“Dos?”
“Yes. Private parties.”
“By parties, you do mean musicales, yes?”
He chuckled again. “I suppose one could call them that.” He slid an ornate case from his breast pocket, clicked it open, and offered the case to her. “Cigarette?”
“No, thank you.” Sarah frowned. Nothing Blake Williams said or did—now that they were out from under Miss Rose’s scrutiny—seemed what it had been inside Palmer House. Nothing felt ‘right.’
What in the world have I gotten myself into?
He removed a cigarette for himself, tapped it on the case, and studied her as he lit it. “I must confess, you are every bit the looker Lola said you were—shining hair like black silk, a fine figure, and a come-hither gleam in your eye. I can imagine how you drive men wild simply by walking into the room. Why, if I were—”
“Mr. Williams, I believe I have made a mistake. Please tell the driver to stop the car immediately. I wish to get out.”
But, rather than compliance, her demand was met with laughter and a good-natured pat on her hand. “Sarah, do say you are not serious?”
“I most certainly am.” Sarah yanked her hand from under his and rapped on the window between them and the driver. “Stop the car, please. Stop, I say.”
Alerted to her request, the driver maneuvered toward the edge of the roadway.
“My dear girl, please calm yourself.”
“Do not patronize me, Mr. Williams. I wish to get out.”
As the car came to a standstill, Sarah reached for the door and pulled on the handle. Blake forestalled her by reaching across her and jerking the door shut.
“Sarah, you are behaving like a child.”
Sarah drew herself up. “Mr. Williams, we are not familiar enough for you to offer such an opinion—you who are years my junior besides.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “And yet it seems that I just did. But do hear me out, Sarah: My compliments were honest and sincere. They contained no threat; neither do you have anything to fear from me. To put it plainly, you are not my type.”
Sarah pulled the door handle again—and he yanked it shut.
“Let go! Let me out!”
“Listen to me, you spoilt girl: I am doing Lola a favor by escorting you to this party, and I guarantee that she will be quite cross with me if you decide not to come. However, if you still wish to return home, I shall have the driver turn around and take us there, and I shall see you safely to your door. I really will not have it said that I left you by the side of the road in the dark.”
He let go of the door. “Now. Have you quite finished your fit?”
Sarah’s mouth hung agape. She had not been spoken to with such brash familiarity in years.
“Miss Ellinger? Do you wish to return to that oversized dormitory you call Palmer House and the annoying warden who runs it, or will you allow me to escort you to the party?”
Sarah could have given the word for him to take her home; she could have minded the alarms in her head—but she did not. Concerned that Lola would be “quite cross” with Blake if she did not attend the event, she tipped her chin up and stared straight ahead.
“In future, kindly keep your personal observations to yourself.”
Blake snorted. “As you wish, princess.”
He rapped the window. “Drive on, please.”
***
THE POLK-STAFFORD MANOR sat upon a low hill, dominating a slice of the Denver skyline. The house was ablaze with lights, and vehicles lined the winding road leading up to the estate proper. Each motor car idled briefly at a guarded gate; when the gate opened, the car continued on up the lane to the house.
As their taxi neared the gate, Blake nudged Sarah. “Give me your invitation, please.”
The taxi paused before the closed gate. Blake rolled down his window and handed his and Sarah’s invitations to a guard. The guard looked inside their vehicle to count the number of passengers, then examined the invitations.
As he handed them back, he murmured, “Have a good evening, sir, miss.”
A second guard rolled the gate aside and the taxi drove through.
“I am surprised that the invitations do not contain more than a date and time.”
“Quite an intentional precaution. Those who are given invites know the location. If the wrong sort of people were to get hold of an invitation and it contained an address? Why, unwelcome visitors might crash the party.”
His answer confused Sarah: precaution? wrong sort of people? “crash” the party? She found herself so mystified that she kept her further questions to herself.
When they crested the low summit, the driver pulled in front of the house under a well-lit awning. A house servant in evening attire opened the door and assisted Sarah from the car while Blake paid the driver.
Sarah squinted under the bright lights, but her first impression was of dozens of elegantly gowned women and exquisitely dressed men either conversing in clusters or ascending the steps to the house. Her second thought was how out of place she was—and not merely in her outmoded dress.
I surely do not belong here.
She had no opportunity to turn back, however. Blake had dismissed the driver; he then took her by the elbow and steered her toward the steps up to the house. At the base of the steps, two additional male servants waited.
“Good evening, Mr. Williams.”
Blake nodded and, for the second time, handed over their invitations. When the servant handed them back, Blake told Sarah, “Keep your invitation in your handbag.”
“All right.”
She tucked the card into her reticule, then he took her arm. Blake was obviously familiar with where they were going: They climbed the steps into the house, walked down a long hallway, turned right, and passed through a set of open, oversized double doors. They stepped into an immense Rococo-style ballroom. The ballroom’s ceiling rose high above them in an ornate dome. White pillars, shooting from the floor up to a high ceiling, supported the dome. Grand murals in light pastels adorned the walls, the ceiling, and the dome’s underside; stained glass windows had been set into the dome around its apex. Elaborate curves and scrolling patterns of fish, shells, leaves, and flowers—trimmed in gold—appeared in every wainscot, chair rail, and crown molding.
Sarah had never seen anything like it.
Intimate cloth-covered tables lined the perimeter of the ballroom, leaving the center open. At the back of the room she spotted a stage, elevated perhaps three feet, so that it overlooked the room. The ballroom was already crowded with affluent young men and women—and it struck Sarah that not a soul present could have been over forty years old. A haze hung in the air as many of the attendees—even the women—smoked cigarettes. Waiters circulated among the crush carrying silver platters loaded with tumblers of punch.
Blake had Sarah by her elbow; he steered her with commendable expertise across the room. He stopped perhaps ten feet from a piano sitting upon the stage; he indicated one of the small tables and pulled out a chair for her.
“Lola had Justin set aside this table for you.”
A placard of heavy stationery read, “Reserved.”
“W-will you leave me here by myself?”
“Not if you do not wish me to. However, I shall be joined by a friend.”
Sarah nodded and sat down. She wanted to leave this place and flee down the hillside, but she could not overcome her culpability for the disappointment Lola would be certain to feel should she retire before the ensemble’s performance. Besides which, she saw so many people of interest around her.
“Would you care for something to drink?”
Sarah was distracted but thirsty. “Yes, please.”
While he was gone, she studied the partygoers, wondering at their eclectic dress and comportment.
When Blake set a tall glass of fruity-looking punch in front of her, Sarah took it and swallowed down a mouthful. It was punch, but it had been liberally dosed with alcohol. Sarah had not taken a drink since she left Corinth—ten years ago. As unexpected fire hit the back of her throat, she choked and coughed.
Blake laughed. “Careful. You will need to pace yourself if you hope to last the evening.”
Sarah pushed the glass away. “I do not drink alcohol, Mr. Williams. Why did you not tell me they would be serving alcohol? It is illegal!”
“Not illegal to drink. Only illegal to make, import, transport, and sell. See? Nothing illegal happening here.”
Sarah sputtered her objections. “But, still! You should have told me, should have told Miss Rose!”
“Miss Rose?”
“Mrs. Thoresen.”
He laughed again. “Tell that old fussbudget? Nothing doing.”
“I shall thank you to speak of her with respect.”
Blake shook his head. “Relax, Sarah. Have a good time. I doubt you get out much, based on the grilling I took.” He put his head to one side. “Are you truly this naïve? Did you not understand when I told you why the address was not included on the invitation?”
Quite the intentional precaution. Those who are given invites know the location. If the wrong sort of people were to get hold of an invitation that contained an address? Why, unwelcome visitors might crash the party.
Sarah reddened. “Unwelcome visitors. You were speaking of the police—and yet, you insisted, ‘Nothing illegal happening here.’”
Blake shrugged, then waved at a man he spotted across the room. “Pardon me. I shall return shortly.” Sarah’s eyes followed him across the floor where he met and embraced the man he’d seen. They talked a few minutes, Blake occasionally gesturing in her direction, until they headed her way, pushing through the throng to reach her.
“Miss Ellinger, may I present my dear friend, Juan de la Vega.”
“How do you do,” Sarah murmured.
Blake’s friend had the dark good looks of a Spaniard, but something about him seemed “off”: He was too handsome in a vain, coquettish way, his hands soft and smooth, his affectations careful and coy.
And his lips were stained red.
He smirked at Sarah as though discerning her thoughts and slid his arm through Blake’s in a possessive manner. “Your gown is lovely, señorita, the beading the perfect accesorio to your beautiful raven coronet . . . even if the style of dress did pass out of fashion a decade ago.”
“Mind your claws, Juan,” Blake chided him. “She is Lola’s new friend.”
“Oh, indeed?” He swept his eyes over Sarah once more. “This could prove to be an entertaining evening after all.”
Blake cut him off. “Ah. The music is about to begin.”
An effete gentleman paraded onto the stage to the applause and catcalls of the crowd. He bowed five or more times before he held out his hands for quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this evening’s entertainment. May I present, for your listening and dancing pleasure, The Pythia.”
Pythia? Sarah searched her memories for the meaning of the word.
It is a Greek word, I believe, she told herself, but she had nothing more to add to its origins.
Wild applause sounded around the room, and Sarah’s mouth fell open as the ensemble emerged from behind a curtain. Lola appeared on stage first, smiling, waving, blowing kisses to the crowd. She was dressed in a sleeveless, shimmering sheath of silver; a gauzy blood-red scarf wound around her neck and trailed down past her waist. Meg, Dannie, and a third woman followed her. Meg took up a trumpet, Dannie an upright bass, and the stranger a clarinet.
Lola spotted Sarah, smiled, and blew a kiss in her direction, too. Then she seated herself at the piano and, with her right hand in the air and her left on the keyboard, pounded out a slow, rhythmic bass line that Dannie took up on the bass. Within seconds the crowd recognized the tune and cheered. Lola brought her right hand to the piano with a dramatic gesture, and the song broke into a full, undulating swing.
Couples flooded the ballroom floor, and Blake and Juan wandered off, leaving Sarah by herself. Sarah watched the dancers, fascinated by the glamor and movement. The band moved to its next number, Some of These Days, followed by Memphis Blues. The intensity of dancing increased when Lola’s band hammered out Darktown Strutters’ Ball.
Sarah lost track of which songs and how many the band played until Lola began to sing, I Ain’t Got Nobody. She turned her head and glanced at Sarah, crooning the words, Won’t somebody take a chance with me?
Sarah looked away, blushing—straight into the smirking faces of Blake and Juan where they stood across the dancefloor. Embarrassed and irritated, she stared at her hands.
What am I doing in this place?
The band played another hour before ending their set to enthusiastic applause. Moments later, Lola joined Sarah at her table.
“Hello, darling.” She placed her cheek against Sarah’s before sitting down. From a faux-jeweled handbag she placed on the table, Lola withdrew a package of cigarettes and an ebony cigarette holder.
“I am so glad you came. Well, what do you think of our little ‘musicale’?”
While Lola fitted a cigarette to the holder and lit it, Sarah scrambled to find a safe topic. “The name of your ensemble? The Pythia, is it? Does the name hold significance?”
Lola drew on the long holder and exhaled smoke from her nose. “A great deal of significance, I should think. The Pythia was the high priestess of the Temple of Apollo in ancient Greece. She was a prophetess, also known as the Oracle of Delphi. We chose the name for that reason.”
Lola inhaled, exhaled, blew the smoke away, and coughed to clear her throat. “For a Greek woman of that time, the role of priestess was a means of holding a respected position in society—on her own merits, you see. She had the right to own property in her own name. She earned her own money, lived in her own house or rooms, and went about freely in public. She was not accountable to a husband’s will or defined by his position.”
“Why is this significant to you?”
Lola laughed softly. “Do not all humans aspire to freedom? Does a woman wish for less independence than a man simply because she has suffered the cosmic misfortune of having been born female? Or are you, Sarah, one of those women who requires a man to validate her thoughts, her voice, her choices? Perhaps even her emotions?”
Lola’s words stunned Sarah—they spoke to many of the unarticulated feelings she harbored within her breast.
Lola smiled. “I see I have awakened something in you. But to answer your question more fully, The Pythia of Apollo was the epitome of female independence in the Greek Empire, and she was attended by three other priestesses. Our little ‘ensemble’ as you call it, turns upon my leadership.”
She shrugged. “You could say that I am The Pythia, and Meg, Gina, and Dannie are my attending priestesses. Only musically, of course.”
Sarah’s eyes followed Dannie and Meg as they mingled with friends. Dannie’s appearance on stage had struck Sarah the hardest. Her short hair was slicked back with hair pomade, and she was dressed, head to toe, as a man in evening wear. Meg leaned into Dannie, and Dannie had her arm about Meg much as a man might hold a woman to his side.
“Do Meg and Dannie have a close friendship?”
“Theirs is an intimate relationship. What is called a Wellesley marriage,” Lola remarked.
“I am unfamiliar with that term,” but she comprehended Lola’s meaning. In the Corinth Gentleman’s Club, Sarah had seen two girls turn to each other for comfort, affection, and . . . physical intimacy. They had not, however, dressed or acted as Dannie did.
That would not have been allowed in the male-dominated market.
“I imagine you are unfamiliar with many things in my circle, but I should love to educate you.” Lola laid her fingers on the back of Sarah’s hand and lightly caressed it.
Sarah stared at their hands, understanding dawning on her. “I-I am not like that, Lola. I am not like you—not how you want me to be . . . with you.”
Lola turned Sarah’s hand over and her thumb stroked Sarah’s palm. “Are you not, indeed?”
Sarah jerked her hand away. “No. No, I am not.”
Lola placed her elbows on the little table, rested her chin upon her hands, and leaned very close to Sarah. “And yet I am certain you have no inclination toward the male gender, am I correct?”
“Be that as it may—”
“I am glad you admit to it.”
“I am not hiding it,” Sarah retorted. “I have told my friends that I shall not marry.”
Lola continued to consider her. “When I look at you, I see a freshness, a purity in your mien more suited to a woman some years younger than your age. That wholesomeness is what attracted me to you initially. I see now that you are a much more complex woman. Tell me, Sarah, are you as innocent as you seem?”
Sarah stared back. “No.”
Oh, I could tell you tales that would dash that image of my purity to dust, Lola—but merely asking about my past does not entitle you to my trust.
“Ah. You have secrets.”
Sarah sighed. “I appreciate your invitation this evening, but I should be going. Would you take me home, now?”
Lola seemed surprised. “We have two more sets to play. The party does not usually break up until near three in the morning.”
“What? Three in the morning? But Blake assured Miss Rose that you would have me home by midnight.”
Lola laughed. “Oh, my dear—what was he thinking? I do apologize, but Justin’s parties are only warming up at midnight, as Blake knows full well. Perhaps he thought it wiser to ask forgiveness than permission.” She gave a little flip of her hand. “Please do not fret yourself. I shall hire a taxi for us and see you safely home after our last set.”
Sarah said through clenched teeth, “I am sorry to inconvenience you, Lola, but Miss Rose is expecting me at midnight.”
Lola leaned back, placed a fresh cigarette in her holder, and lit it. As she drew on the holder, the cigarette’s ember glowed a bright red. She inhaled slowly, seductively, then released the smoke through her parted lips. All the while, she considered Sarah.
“I am a bit perplexed, Sarah.”
Mesmerized, Sarah stared at the smoke coiling around Lola’s features, how she sucked it back into her mouth and caused it to swirl out her nose once more.
“Uh, perplexed? About what?”
“Why, about you, of course. I had thought you a grown woman, an adult.”
Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “You are playing at word games, attempting to provoke me.”
“Provoke you? No. Plumb the depths of this person known as Sarah Ellinger? Yes. I want to know the authentic person you are, Sarah, and so I probe and ask questions.”
Her mouth pulled on the ebony holder. “I said I had thought you a grown woman—an adult who makes her own choices. After all, the mark of maturity and independence is found in knowing one’s own mind, making one’s own decisions, and living with those choices, is it not?”
Sarah knew what Lola was implying. “I know my own mind, and I do make my own choices. To be clear, I have chosen to live within certain limits and restrictions—for my own safety and for my spiritual growth and health.”
“Safety? Spiritual growth and health? You have given this Miss Rose a great deal of authority over your life. Forgive me for saying so, but how does this further your independence and happiness?”
Lola again drew on her cigarette and exhaled the smoke. It was a slow and practiced process, one from which Sarah could not take her eyes.
“I do not live for my own independence and happiness, Lola.”
Lola caught a signal out of the corner of her eye. She waved her acknowledgement and stubbed out the remainder of her cigarette.
As she stood, she smiled at Sarah. “Dear me. As fascinating as this is, it is time to play again. I hope we can continue our conversation during our next break.”
Without warning, she leaned toward Sarah, brushed a kiss across her cheek, then spun on her heel and returned to the stage. The band commenced their next set, and Sarah noted Lola watching her, an enigmatic smile playing about her mouth, her eyes questing, seeking for something.
Sarah swallowed and touched the spot where Lola’s lips had met her skin.
~~**~~
