Gwendolyn’s sewing machine was so old that Prohibition was still the law of the land when she bought it. It was a basic model, black with the Singer logo in gold. She’d used it to stitch together hundreds of outfits over the years, and it had never once failed her. There were newer models capable of executing much fancier work, but until this one fell apart in her hands, she was happy to rely on the Singing Beast to get her work done.
And what work there was to be done! She walked out of the Midnight Frolics with fifteen orders. After Mr. Dewberry warned the men they’d better be prepared to cough up good dough if they wanted something classy, Gwendolyn quoted as high as she dared, and nobody fainted from shock. Several of them demurred, saying it was beyond their present budget, but most offered to pay the whole amount up front. Gwendolyn told them she’d be perfectly happy to accept half as a deposit, and then take the balance when they came for a fitting. The words “for a fitting” sent most of them twitching in anticipation.
Bent over the Singing Beast, she could feel the heat radiating from the motor and knew it was time to give it a rest. She looked up to see her new volunteer assistant, Arlene, standing in front of her portrait.
“You done with that hem?” Gwendolyn asked.
Arlene nodded. “Those ruffles weren’t too bad, once I got the hang of it.”
A moon-faced accountant type with pudgy fingers and a double chin had requested a Carmen Miranda outfit. Gwendolyn was daunted at first, but when he sent her a photo from That Night in Rio clipped out of Modern Screen showing Miranda in a pale yellow dress with large panels of crimson zigzags, she was relieved. The trickiest part was the puffy sleeves, and they could tackle that after lunch.
When Marcus first told Gwendolyn about his strawberry blonde hooker from Leilah’s brothel, she pictured a hard-bitten Warner Bros. gun moll with a bad henna rinse and a shoddy manicure. She was taken aback when Arlene moved into one of the inexpensive rooms in the main house and shyly joined the cocktail party Bertie threw to celebrate the navy’s first successful atomic blast in the Pacific.
Gwendolyn doubted Bertie could even find this Bikini Atoll on a map, but she knew she’d been looking for an excuse to throw a party. Bertie invented a new drink and called it a Gilda after the nickname the military gave the bomb.
Gwendolyn couldn’t have been more surprised when Arlene asked Kathryn who the Deanna Durbin in the cashmere sweater and ballet slippers was. By the time the party was over and everybody was smashed on Gildas, Gwendolyn had recruited Arlene to help. Gwendolyn had rashly promised to finish two dresses a week and was already starting to panic that she would fail her first-ever paying customers.
Thankfully, Arlene turned out to be as skilled with a needle as she promised. But as much as Gwendolyn needed the help, she didn’t want to continue under false pretenses. It took a special sort of person to be okay with making dresses for men, and Arlene deserved to know what she was doing.
Gwendolyn headed for the kitchen past Arlene, who was still looking at Gwennie O’Hara. “What do you think?”
“You should rig up a spotlight on it,” Arlene said.
“To be honest, I find it narcissistic to have one’s portrait hanging in the living room. Are ham and cheese sandwiches okay? I might have some chutney.”
Arlene trailed after her. “If you think this is narcissistic, you should see what I’ve just escaped from. Oh, brother.”
Gwendolyn pulled bread, cheese, and ham from her little Frigidaire and spread them along the counter. “It must have been dreadful.”
“Could’ve been worse. I figured out ways to avoid the actual work as often as I could.”
Gwendolyn flipped on the radio. After the warm-up static abated, the smooth strains of Perry Como’s “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows” filled the kitchen.
“You mean like doing Leilah’s paperwork?” Gwendolyn asked.
“Yes, that, and fixing buttons and zippers and hems for all the girls. They were pretty as all get-out, but Lordy, what a bunch of dummies. They couldn’t do a thing for themselves—not sew, not cook, and forget about balancing a checkbook. Honestly, I’m surprised they figured out which hole to use.”
Gwendolyn looked up from her sandwiches.
The girl rolled her eyes. “After working in a brothel, nothing shocks me anymore.”
Gwendolyn eyed the half-finished Carmen Miranda on the dining table.
“Pretty much the only thing those dumb gals knew how to do was keep the weight off. Mrs. O’Roarke insisted everyone stay movie-star thin, so black coffee and Benzedrine is all I saw any of them have. I guess I’d gotten used to it because when I saw the measurements of this outfit we’re making, my first thought was, Sheesh, how big is this woman? Then I realized, Maybe she ain’t fat, she’s just normal.”
Gwendolyn sliced their sandwiches into triangles and slid them onto plates. “There’s something about my clientele I haven’t shared with you.”
Arlene wiped up an errant spatter of chutney with a finger. “Oh yes?”
Gwendolyn was still deliberating where to start when four loud beeps sounded from the radio.
“We interrupt this broadcast for a news flash. Aviator and movie producer Howard Hughes was testing his new XF-11 photo-reconnaissance plane this afternoon when he experienced propeller trouble over Beverly Hills. Eyewitnesses report he tried to reach the Los Angeles Country Club. However, he lost altitude short of the golf course and made a crash landing on Linden Drive at the western edge of Beverly Hills.”
“Oh my!” Arlene exclaimed. “Do you think he’s dead?”
They moved closer to the radio.
“The giant aircraft tore the roof off 803 North Linden Drive then sliced through the upstairs bedroom of the home next door. Mr. Hughes was pulled from the wreckage alive; however, initial reports state that he hovers near death, with a punctured lung and multiple broken ribs. We shall bring you updates when they come to light.”
As Perry Como filled the kitchen once more, the two women bit into their sandwiches.
“Do you know who lives on Linden?” Gwendolyn asked.
“Who?”
“Leilah O’Roarke.”
“No!”
There was a knock at the door.
Gwendolyn pulled it open to find Marcus and Oliver; Marcus had a large book and Oliver held a letter. She ushered them inside. “You’ve heard the news, then? Can you imagine?”
The guys frowned at her.
“We’ve come with news,” Oliver said, “but something tells me it’s not the same news.” He held up a letter. “My friend was on a mission down in Colombia.”
Linc’s postcard had been stuck to the refrigerator so long, Gwendolyn barely even saw it anymore.
Marcus held up the book in his hands. A Detailed Atlas of the Americas. He laid it on the counter and cracked it open to a map of the west coast of Mexico.
Oliver pointed to a spot about halfway down. “Mazatlán. My pal recognized it straightaway. ‘El faro’ means ‘the lighthouse,’ and apparently the Mazatlán lighthouse is pretty famous, at least in Mexico.”
Marcus flipped over a few pages until he came to a more detailed map of the town. On the opposite page was an alphabetical list of streets. He ran his finger down the first column; Gwendolyn read the name where his finger stopped.
Marcus took Gwendolyn’s left hand. “It’s quite possible that you’ll find Linc living on a street called Emilio Barragán down south of the border.”
Between the Hughes bulletin and this Mazatlán place, Gwendolyn’s mind had gone to mush. She didn’t know what to think, or how to feel, or what her next move should be, or if she even had a next move.
She studied the atlas again. “Looks kinda remote.”
“We made some enquiries and it seems you have three options. Take a series of buses—”
“How many is a series?” Arlene cut in.
“Five. And it takes three weeks.”
“What’s option number two?”
“Fishing boats. They start out at San Diego and go all the way down to a place called Acapulco, stopping at every port along the way. They don’t often take paying passengers, but apparently you can talk your way on board if you show them mucho dinero.”
Gwendolyn jacked her fists on her hips. “So your plan is for me to spend weeks at sea on a boat full of lonely sailors with nothing to do but—” She waved away the rest of her sentence. “Option number three?”
“Hire a pilot with an aircraft and fly down there.”
Gwendolyn looked past the boys to the half-finished Carmen Miranda dress on her dining table. She had no idea how much it cost to hire a pilot and get him to fly down to Mexico, but she was pretty sure it was at least a month’s work. Maybe more. Probably more. Probably a lot more.
Maybe you’ve moved on.
The thought took her breath away.
Even if I did find a way to get down there, what if Linc no longer lives on that street? And even if he’s still there, what’re the chances he’s still got your dough? I’ve now got a list of clients almost begging me to charge as much as I want for a gown. Even so, fifteen clients won’t generate what you need to open a store, but they’re still paying you to do what you love.
“Guys,” she said, “Arlene and I are fighting an uphill battle, so you’ll need to excuse us. We must finish this dress by tonight so we can start the next one tomorrow. Thank you for your help, but—”
“We know none of these options are practical.” She could see the disappointment in Marcus’ face.
“I want you to know that I love you for trying.” She nudged them toward her front door. “You’ve certainly given me food for thought, but meanwhile, you got to scoot. Carmen Miranda is calling.”
She closed the door behind the guys and rested her head against the cool wood. But what if he is there?
She heard Arlene pointedly clear her throat. “Do you need to be alone?”
“No,” Gwendolyn insisted, crossing back the Singing Beast. “Tomorrow we have a much more complicated ball gown. I hope you’re fast with sequins, because there’s going to be lots of them.”
At least you’ll know why Linc did what he did.
Arlene sat down at the dining table and picked up another panel of zigzag. “We were talking about your clientele. Is there something I should know?”
Gwendolyn lifted the dress off the table. “Let me describe the person who will be wearing this little number.”