Chapter 11

“You got married?”

Lilly sank down on the metal lawn chair beside Moseby’s wheelchair, where Moseby sat basking in the sun, a bottle of lemonade sweating in her hand, her eyes closed, her dark hair pulled back in a rag headband. Overhead shone a glorious blue sky, one of the precious few before summer vanished into the sharp winds of autumn. Indeed on the August Minnesota wind, Lilly smelled the hubris of autumn, and a few of the early crimson maple leaves splotched the grass like droplets of blood.

“Eddie asked, and I said yes. I figured, he felt so guilty about the accident that this might be the only time, so I took my chance.” She opened her eyes and glanced at Lilly. Held out her hand. “Go figure, he already had a ring.” A plain silver band encircled her left ring finger.

“But what about your career, wing walking, the Flying Stars?”

She leaned back. “The fact is, Lilly, once I said ‘I do,’ it felt right to give it up. I want to stay here with Eddie and make a life, have babies. I never thought I’d end up in Minnesota, but these are good people, and this is where I am, so I’m going to hold on for the ride, with Eddie. Besides”—she looked over and winked at Lilly—“they have Lola, the Flying Angel. They don’t need me.” Nothing of rancor hued her words. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

Eddie and Moseby rented a tiny one-bedroom saggy blue house on the edge of town, but across the weedy road, the lake glistened, beckoning, waves combing the shore. Beck stood in the sand, his feet tunneled deep, the water sloshing at his ankles, looking as if he might be contemplating stripping off his pants and diving in. Rango, Dan, and Truman had gone to town to help Marvel put up bulletins in a desperate attempt to resurrect their show.

“So, how did you convince him to let you wing walk?”

She looked at Moseby. “Convince who? Marvel?”

“You know who.” Moseby gave her a look. “I can’t imagine that after my accident Truman was thrilled to let you climb out on that wing.”

Lilly drew in a breath. “I’m not sure, actually. I found him wet to the gills down at some bar, dragged him home, and the next morning, he took me up. Gratitude, maybe.”

“Or maybe he thought you’d get it out of your system.”

“I nearly did. It’s terrifying.”

“And exhilarating.” Moseby smiled.

Lilly smiled back. “That too.”

Moseby shook her head. “I remember the first time I got on the wing. I thought I was crazy. I held the wires so tightly they ripped into my hands. But I told myself that I wanted this, and I kept hanging on, one flight at a time, until I became the Flying Angel. Still, I can’t believe he let you take over the act. I thought for sure my accident would drag up demons.”

“He hasn’t had a drink since then either.”

Moseby raised an eyebrow. “He’s up to something.”

We put together a spectacular show, you and me.

Truman’s words niggled at her. He’d said nothing more about his offer since that night, almost a week ago, as if he’d forgotten. Instead, he found times to steal her away behind the tent to kiss her, moments when he swept her up into his strong arms and took her flying.

“Lilly?”

Oh. She shook away the memory of his kiss and smiled at Moseby. “What?”

Moseby considered her for a long moment, her green eyes running over her face, before she pursed her lips and looked away. “That scoundrel.”

“What?”

“Oh, Lilly, this is a bad idea.” Moseby reached out, took her hand. “Please tell me he hasn’t gotten you into his…well, cockpit might be the right word.”

Lilly yanked her hand away. “No…what? No. Moseby!” But her entire body burned. “He’s not that kind of guy.”

“He’s exactly that kind of guy. I love my cousin, but Truman cares only about Truman. Everything he does is about him and advancing his future. About flying. It’s more important to him than anything. Even…” She raised her eyebrows, nodded. “You know.”

Lilly couldn’t breathe, just stared at her until the words formed. “I used to think that, but it’s not like that. He…”

“Cares about you? He loves you?”

Her tone bit at Lilly. “I don’t know…maybe.”

“More importantly, do you love him?”

Lilly watched Beck roll up his pant legs higher. Well, it was better than stripping off his britches.

“Lilly?”

“I don’t know, okay? I’m not sure I know what that is. I thought I loved Rennie, that he wanted to be with me, but I was a fool. And now, maybe I can’t recognize love when I see it.”

“I’ll tell you when it shows up—when you agree to do stupid things because he asks. Like wing walk across an old, broken plane. And say yes to tricks you know will kill you.”

“I wouldn’t do that. And Truman hasn’t asked me to do anything—”

“Not dangle from a ladder? Because he came up with that cockamamie trick once, and I had to shoot him down.”

“No.”

“Not jump from Beck’s plane to his, midair? Another of his brilliant ideas.”

She glanced at Beck, now stripping off his shirt. “You can do that?”

“Apparently, but I told him no. How about the outside loop? He ask you to do that yet?”

“No, and he won’t, Moseby. It’s not like that. He hasn’t asked me to do anything dangerous. I’m the one who’s coming up with all the new stunts, not him. It’s…we’re…”

“Aw, shucks, you do love him.”

“No! I just have more faith in him than you do.”

“I have every bit of faith that Truman will do exactly as Truman wants. Flying is all he has, and he’s not going to give it up for anything…or anyone. Just make sure you remember that before he gets you killed.”

“I thought you trusted Truman. You wing walked for him.”

“I wing walked for myself.” She met Lilly’s eyes. “Why are you doing it?”

Lilly stared at her. Listened to her heartbeat. Why, indeed. Because…because…

“Please tell me it’s not to impress Truman.”

Lilly couldn’t answer for the way her chest tightened.

“To find the person I want to be,” she finally whispered.

“You think you have to search for her,” Moseby said. “But you can be that person now, Lilly. Be who you’re looking for. Don’t spend your life looking for what you want to be, or you’ll never stop searching. You are who you commit to be, doing what you commit to doing, not what Truman or anyone else tells you to do.” She reached out and touched Lilly’s hand. “And don’t you dare let him talk you into something foolish.” She waved to someone behind Lilly. “Eddie!”

Lilly turned to see Eddie striding toward them over the uncut grass. He carried a brown sack. “Hello, Angels. Saw Marvel and the guys in town. They’re drumming up business for this weekend.” He opened the sack and drew out a brown bottle, handed it to Moseby. She popped the lid with an opener she had in the stash of necessaries next to her chair and handed it to Lilly.

“Did you see Truman? He went in with Rango and Dan.”

“I saw him go into the telephone station.” Eddie sat down in the grass, pulled out another bottle, and opened it. He gestured to the tent setup down the shoreline, not unlike their own, the flaps pulled back like curtains. “They started yet?”

“I saw a few cars pull up. They won’t get rolling until tonight.” Moseby shaded her eyes to look at the spectacle.

“What is it?” Lilly said.

“A revival. There’s a preacher here from Minneapolis. Revs up the crowd and starts pouring out the hellfire and brimstone after the sun goes down. Sometimes we can hear him from here.” He took a drink. “They’ve been at it all week. The entire town empties out for it. I guess everybody needs a tune-up once in a while.”

A tune-up. She hadn’t thought about God, or religion, or church since…she took another drink. “But long ago I committed my plans to God. I trust Him, you know. And He blessed me with you. And with you, Daughter.” Her mother’s voice threaded through her.

“Whatever happens, honey, don’t forget who you are. Don’t forget the blessings God has bestowed upon you. Don’t forget your name and where you belong.”

“Maybe I’ll go.”

“You? Religious?” Eddie picked up a rock, threw it at Beck, who was wading now, waist deep in the water, edging toward a duck. The duck startled, flew away.

“I grew up attending church, it’s just that I have a few questions.” Like why God had taken her father before she could meet him. And why He’d yanked her mother away just as she started to need her. And while she had the ear of the Almighty, she might add a few questions about her cousin Jack.

Most of all, what had her family done to make God abandon them? Her mother might think He’d blessed them, but Lilly saw nothing of the sort.

In fact, she was probably better off without Him in her life, just like Rennie had said.

She got up and walked over to the water, standing at the edge as Beck finally dove in.

* * * * *

The revival began just around twilight, with hymn singing and clapping. The cars pulled up to clutter the field around the lake, much like the Saturday afternoon air show. Lilly watched for a while from her window, her courage a tight ball inside her.

When the hymns finally seemed to die into silence, she slipped into her skirt and shirtwaist and walked barefoot out to the tent.

Beck and Rango—and she supposed Truman, also—had headed into town for more entertaining—and perhaps sinful—pursuits. In fact, Truman hadn’t even returned from town after his phone call, and she dearly hoped she wouldn’t have to sneak back into O’Grady’s tonight and pry him off the bar.

She understood the darkness inside him that made him want to forget. She just hoped that flying—flying with her—had given him a hint of light.

The grasses by the lake tickled her feet so she stayed nearer the water, padding through the dark creamy sand, surprised now and again by the lap of the waves, chilly upon her dry skin.

Truman cares only about Truman. Everything he does is about him and advancing his future.

Moseby’s words hung in Lilly’s mind. Along with her warning. Truman will do exactly as Truman wants. Flying is all he has, and he’s not going to give it up for anything…or anyone. Just make sure you remember that before he gets you killed.

She didn’t want to know how Moseby knew this. But this time, Moseby was wrong—Truman hadn’t even mentioned her running away with him to start his own show. And, he’d been…mostly a gentleman.

Like last night. After the clouds blotted out the stars, he’d crawled over to where she lay wrapped in her blanket under the wing of Eddie’s plane. He’d propped his head up on one elbow, traced his hand down her cheek. She’d stilled, seeing the look in his eyes. Not heat, but something tender. Then he’d kissed her, quick and fast.

He’d snuck away then, dissolving into the night, leaving her confused, at best.

No, if Moseby’s warnings about Truman were true, then he would have behaved like Rennie had, right?

Moseby might have faith in his flying, but Lilly had faith in the man.

She wound her way around the cars, the lights from the tent glowing like it might be on fire under the canopy of darkness. Inside, maybe two hundred faithful—or lost—sat on long, roughhewn benches. Outside, a group of men hung onto the tent posts, their cigarette butts burning in the night. The skeptics, perhaps.

The words of the preacher, not quite hellfire yet, drew her in like a hook. She stood on the edge of the flap, watching, listening as a tall man, lean and bony, gestured from the stage. Sweat glistened off his melon head. He’d shucked off his suit jacket, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and held a worn Bible, which he alternately used to point with and then reprove with as he read it out loud.

“ ‘For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.’ ”

Lilly slid in, sat on the end of the bench. Beside her, a farm wife held a sleeping baby on her lap, the little boy’s blond curls sweaty against his skin, his lips askew.

“You know why, people? It’s because when God adopts you into His family, you belong to Him. He stamps His name on you. A name that comes with His protection. And His birthright, which is eternity and the power to live with joy on this earth. It’s all yours, just as if you’d always belonged. But the Good Word says that to have this, you must repent.”

He looked down at his Bible. “ ‘For to all who came to Him, He gave the right to be called a child of God.’ ” He pointed across the audience. “Are you a child of God tonight? Are you standing firm in that belief, in His embrace? Or has life pushed you out of His arms?”

Caught in the passion of his words, Lilly couldn’t help but scan the room, right along with him. A figure standing just outside the open flaps along the far wall caught her eye. He stood with his face only half-illumined, but she recognized it like she might recognize her own.

Truman.

“The good news is that all you have to do to belong to God, to get the Almighty to stamp His name on you, to climb into that place of steadfast love and joy, is to repent. To see that you need Him, turn around and let Him forgive you. He wants to—”

Truman turned and walked away.

Lilly listened to the preacher outline just how one might confess and the various deeds they might confess, and then slipped out into the night.

Truman strode past the cars, along the beach toward town.

She darted after him, not raising her voice, waiting until she could catch up—

He ran the heel of his hand across his face.

He wasn’t…crying? She couldn’t stop herself. “Truman!”

He paused, glanced back, and she was glad the darkness hid his expression, because she didn’t want to see his dismay. She had the overwhelming urge to pull his head down to her shoulder. To tell him that—

What? She loved him? No, maybe just that they were a team. That he could trust her.

“What are you doing here?”

She caught up with him, until she could trace the outlines of his face, his dark blue eyes in hers, terrible with some unshed emotion.

“I was at the revival. I—I saw you there.”

He looked away. “They were making a racket. I wanted to see what it was about.”

She slid her hand onto his arm. “Truman—”

“Bunch of liars.” Truman shook his head. “That hokey about nothing being able to separate us from God’s love—maybe for the preacher man. But what about the rest of us? The ones who make mistakes, and…” He held up his hand. “Forget it. Let’s get out of here.” He hooked his hand around her elbow and pulled her beside him, across the gritty shore.

She caught his hand, walked with him in silence, her heart thundering.

Finally, long after they’d passed Moseby’s, as the moon rose behind them, he spoke.

“My folks were religious. Loved to go to prayer meetings, and took me and my brothers to church every Sunday. My father thought we should all be farmers, like him, and my older brother stayed on the farm to help. He expected me to also, but…I couldn’t.”

“You wanted to fly?”

“I wanted to live my own life. I wanted to explore the world. I left home when I was fourteen, worked on the railroad until one day we were set up in a small town doing repairs and a barnstormer flew in. I ran fuel for him all day and offered my free services if he would teach me to fly. I spent about two years with him, and then the army called. I wheedled my flying skills into a job and flew Sopwith Camels over Germany. When I came back, I thought I was a hero. I bought my own plane, and by then, I knew a few tricks and had made a bit of a name for myself.”

He stopped, let go of her hand, turned to the lake. “Then I went home.”

She stayed very still.

“I was so proud of myself. I flaunted my new plane in front of my family, then I took my brother up.”

He went silent so long, she had to say it. “Moseby told me.”

He closed his eyes.

She touched his arm.

“The thing is, my brother was scared to death, and I told him I’d take good care of him. That I wouldn’t let anything happen to him.” A muscle pulled in his jaw. “And then I killed him.”

“Truman, flying is risky—”

He rounded on her. “Not for me. I knew what I was doing. It was a freak accident and—” His eyes glistened. “I destroyed my family. Sure, they forgave me, but my father died of a heart attack about six months later. Mom, she’s never really recovered. I slunk out of town as soon as I was able, and I’ve never been back.”

“I’m so sorry, Truman.”

“This is what you gotta understand. I’m on my own now, Lilly. There’s no forgiveness for me. What I do, what I make of my life is on me. I don’t have God’s love. And frankly, I look around this world, and I wonder if any of us do.”

His words resounded inside her, sounded too much like Rennie. Maybe everyone who tasted loss wondered the same thing.

He shook his head. “Do I need God’s love? I don’t know. I don’t even know if I want it.” He turned to her. “What I do know is that we got something good going with us, Lilly. Something powerful and right. And I’m not just talking about flying.” He stepped up to her, put his arms around her, leaned close, and whispered into her ear, husky, his tone vibrating through her, “Marry me, Lilly. Right now. We’ll put our act together and set out on our own.”

Marry him? She touched his face, his whiskers against her palm, his skin wet.

“We couldn’t assemble our own show, could we?”

He touched his lips against her cheek. “Trust me, will you?”

She closed her eyes against the closeness of him, letting him pull her against himself, holding on as he lowered her onto the beach, the sand cold against her legs. “What about Montana?” she whispered.

“We’ll get back there, I promise.” He ran his hand down her face, his gaze stealing her power to think. “We belong together, Lilly. You and me. Please say yes. Marry me.”

Then, he kissed her into the soft sand, weaving his fingers through hers, knitting them together under the stars.

Yes.

* * * * *

Cesar Napoli knew how to throw a birthday bash. He’d closed down Valerie’s and turned the club into a wonderland of lights and music and pretty, glittering dames, chorus girls joining the ranks of their cigarette girl sisters, dressed in outfits designed to please the guests—men in Cesar’s employ, and other businessmen in town. Thankfully, he’d canceled the peacocks and instead cleared the floor and put a boxing ring in the middle, dragging in prizefighters for exhibition rounds. The famed Jack Dempsey was supposed to take the ring tonight. The place reeked of sweat and cigar smoke and enough bootlegged whiskey to send Cesar to the clink for half a lifetime. Rosie wore the pale pink dress and looked like cotton candy on his arm all night, fetching him drinks, smiling at his lewd jokes, allowing him to occasionally draw her near and put his hand low, past the small of her back.

But she wore a smile, because what other choice did she have?

She refused to consider Guthrie’s proposal. Move to Chicago? Become a baseball player’s wife? Enter the world of domesticity? No, she was a good-time gal and tonight she sparkled. At least on the outside. Inside, she kept hearing Guthrie’s voice, warm and settled into her bones. I do need you. You’re my lucky charm.

He was leaving tomorrow morning, a 6 a.m. exit from her life. Now, she sat in the crook of Cesar’s arm on one of the curved sofas, watching him finish his old-fashioned. Across from him, a businessman she didn’t know had pulled a cigarette girl named Nicey into his lap, tucking his arm around her while he talked, gesticulating with his drink. Behind them, more prizefighters warmed up. Soon, another round would begin and she’d have to be on her guard as Cesar mock-punched his way through the match, his fists flying wider with each round.

Not to mention that he had bets on every fight and seemed to be raking in enough green to suggest he’d rigged the entire shebang.

She couldn’t follow his current conversation—something about politics or business—until, “Did you hear I’m opening a new show?” Cesar’s voice rose more with each drink. She pushed away and looked at him.

“That’s right, doll,” he said, his eyes obsidian, even fuzzy. He stood up, wobbled, but then found his feet. He pulled her up beside him. “C’mon.”

His hand slipped down to hers, vised it, and sent a scurry through her stomach as he pulled her toward the center ring. Then he moved aside the ropes and climbed inside. She followed him.

“Ladies and gents!” The din in the room subsided. “As you know, Valerie’s has a new show every season, filled with drama and singing and dancing. And I’m pleased to tell you that I’ve found our new lead actress. May I present to you, Miss Red Worth!”

Her breath caught as he turned to her and smiled. It seemed genuine, even sweet. He leaned close. “See, Red, I keep my promises.”

She threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Cesar. I’ll be amazing, I promise.”

“Yes, you will,” he said into her ear. Then he let her go and held up her hand in a victory gesture. “It seems the lady is rather thankful.”

The crowd laughed, and her face heated. Still, their applause soaked into her, stirring to life a spark inside. She waved to her audience and heard Cesar chuckle beside her.

“Already a starlet.”

Indeed. This was what she’d waited for, why she’d endured Cesar’s threats and occasional gropes. Lead actress. Top billing. As his star, worthy of his adoration.

They climbed off the stage as the fighters took their positions. But even as the bell rang and the audience’s attention diverted to the fight, she buzzed with the fait de accompli. The other chorus girls eyed her with suspicion, but she hadn’t given enough of herself away for her to feel shame.

Instead of settling them back on the sofa, Cesar steered them toward his office, behind the bar. “I have something I want to give you,” he said.

He closed the door behind him, the sounds of the fight muffling. His office always reminded her of her father’s, back when they lived in the chateau. Dark mahogany panels, a matching desk, leather smoking chairs before a marble fireplace. Velvet drapes framed the window, where outside, rain spattered on the sidewalk. A gilded mirror hung over the mantel, reflecting the office back on itself.

Cesar let go of her hand, turned, and sat on the edge of his desk.

“You’re very beautiful tonight, Red. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that sooner.” He took her hand and pulled her to himself, his lips at her neck, trailing up to her face.

She let herself surrender to his kiss, drifting away to a different place, a windy boardwalk, the smells of the sea. When he was finished, he let her go, wiping his thumb along her lips. “I smudged you.”

“I can repair it,” she said, producing a smile. After all, she was an actress.

“You please me.” He ran his hand down her arm. “You’re so beautiful, so refined. Not like the other chorus girls—floozies, really. You’ve got real class, Red, just like Lexie said.” He stood up, put his hand to her throat. “I’m really sorry I scared you a few weeks ago.” He let his hand sit there, heating her, rousing the memory as he met her eyes. His were almost black, they held her fast, as if searching for her forgiveness.

She wasn’t sure whether to believe his words, but she offered it anyway with a nod. “I should have listened to you.”

“Yes.” He moved his hand to her face, cupped her cheek for a moment, then turned and walked around the desk. “I think you need to replace the memory of my hand around your neck.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a wide, long velvet box.

She stared at it. Held her breath. He came back around the desk and handed it to her. “To my leading dame.”

She opened it, and everything stilled inside when she saw the pearls. An immense rope of them, enough to loop around her neck two, maybe three times and still dangle down to her navel. She looked up at Cesar. “I don’t know what to say.”

His expression softened. “You’re pleased, then.”

She nodded, no acting necessary. What a kind thing he’d done. And he did look apologetic for his crimes. “Cesar, these are so beautiful.”

He reached over, pulled them out. “Let me put them on you.” She turned to the fireplace and saw herself in the mirror as he stepped behind her and put the pearls around her neck. Smooth hands, nothing like Guthrie’s—she shooed that thought away. Cesar looped them again, and finally a third time, until they stacked on her neck then fell to a grand loop at her waist. He settled his hands on her shoulders and met her gaze in the mirror.

“There’s my girl.” They looked good together. Flashy, with her peroxide hair so blond it shimmered in the light, and his dark, regal Italian. Maybe she did belong to him.

She turned and wrapped her arms around his neck, smelling on him the cigar smoke, the starch in his suit. “I am your girl, Cesar.”

His hands circled her waist and held her for a moment. Then he moved her away. “Perfect.”

She nearly glowed as they exited his office, moving back through the crowd. The fight had finished the first round, heading into the second, and a few guests took the time to congratulate her—a few of the men directing their congratulations to Cesar, with appreciative glances flashed her direction. She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and held on.

The night folded away into more drinks, more fights, more politics, and the occasional whisper of his lips across her check. Cesar kept a firm grasp on her, sending her away only to refill his drink, and even then he looked for her when she returned.

His leading dame.

She glanced at the clock, saw it edging past 2 a.m., and refused to count the hours until Guthrie’s train left. Not that it mattered. She belonged here, with Cesar.

She was a starlet.

The crowd began to thin, and then, abruptly at three, Cesar rose and bid everyone good night, almost shooing out the crowd. Men peeled out of corners, cigarette girls attached to their arms. Others left with some of his chorus girls, and she saw Nicey on the arm of her suitor. Mickey at the bar began closing up, and the remaining wait staff collected the debris of the night. The band started to pack up.

Cesar sat on the sofa and watched it all, his eyes blank.

“Cesar, are you okay?” She drew up her knees beside him. “You look tired.”

He glanced at her. “I’m thirty-two years old, and what do I have?”

“What are you talking about? You got this great place, a swell show, all these friends turning out to wish you happy birthday.”

“These ain’t my friends. These are leeches—they all want something from me.” He picked up the end of her pearls. “Even you, doll. You don’t really love ole Cesar.” He watched her with milky, dark eyes, waiting.

Deep inside, a socialite knew the right answer. “Sure I do, Cesar. I’m here, aren’t I?”

He touched her cheek. “Prove it, baby. Can’t you prove it?”

She shrugged and leaned in, gave him a kiss on his cheek.

He leaned his head back, smiled. “You can do better than that, can’t you?”

She grinned, despite the whirl in her chest, then kissed him on the lips. He cupped his hand behind her head, held her there, exploring her lips. He tasted of brandy and smoke, and his kiss was sloppy, but she felt in it a longing that allowed her a measure of pity. He was just drunk.

“C’mon, Cesar,” she said when he let her go. “Let’s get you into your office and onto the sofa. You need some sleep.” She stood up and wrestled him to his feet. He hung his arm over her shoulder but managed to walk on his own to his office. She opened the door, turned on the light, and struggled to help him to the sofa. He kicked the door shut on the way.

He tumbled onto the sofa, his arm still tight around her, bringing her with him. She landed beside him, ingloriously stabbing her elbow into his chest. Her arm was pinned beneath her, the other still bracing herself on his shoulder. He laughed, so she did too, until suddenly, he rolled on top of her. Too fast for a drunk man—this was a move from someone seasoned.

She lay pinned under him, his body large over hers. She pushed her free arm against his chest. “Cesar, let me up.”

He laughed again, and that’s when she knew he’d tricked her. He caught her hand above her head, pinning it to the edge of the sofa. Then, he leaned close, put his nose to her neck, and drew in a breath. “I like that smell,” he said softly. He lifted his head, looked into her eyes. “Do you belong to me, Red?”

She bit her lip, not sure if she should scream. “I—I don’t know.”

His eyes darkened, and suddenly, he slapped her, a backhanded blow across her cheek that rattled her teeth and bruised her cheekbone, her eye socket. The pain flashed in her eyes, and she cried out. She began to squirm away, but he held her wrist fast, tightening his hold. The other hand he cupped to her neck. “Would you like to try again? Do you belong to me, Red?”

Her breath wobbled inside. “Yes. Yes, of course, Cesar.”

“Say it.”

“I belong to you.”

He smiled, incisors showing. “Yes, you do.”

And then he kissed her. Hard, without kindness, bruising her lips, crushing them to her teeth. She twisted to get away. “Please!”

He held her face in his grip, his mouth at her neck, his hand at her hem. She kicked and thrashed. “No, Cesar—stop!”

But he had his hand on her thigh, and she knew no one was coming to stop him.

Think, Rosie. She heard her heartbeat rushing in her ears as she twisted away from him, only to have his hand burn her wrist, his mouth return to hers for more punishment.

In the thrashing, her pinned arm broke free, and while his hand groped for her clothing, she clawed the floor for anything. Her hand hit the table. She searched it and found something hard.

An ashtray. She put her hand around it, and when Cesar came up for air, she brought her knee up hard. He snarled, and with everything she had, she clocked him across the face. He roared in pain, blood spurting from his nose, onto her dress, now ripped and mussed. He reared, both hands on his nose as he wailed, cursing at her. She scrambled back and landed a kick in his chest.

He went over the side of the sofa with a thud. She didn’t even pause to look behind her, just leaped over the sofa and ran for the door.

“Red! You come back here!”

She escaped into the now dark bar, heading for the street.

Heading—please God—for Chicago.

* * * * *

She just had to get to Central Station. Rosie huddled in an alleyway, her arms wrapped around herself, shivering, soaked all the way through to her bones, waiting for the car to pass. She had no doubts that Cesar sent his men out looking for her. No doubts that when he found her, she might not ever be able to take the stage again after he worked her over.

She’d spent the last two hours remembering the stories she’d heard from the other girls. She’d been so naïve to think he wouldn’t turn his dark side toward her.

Her mother’s words that night outside the Cotton Club echoed inside. He’ll only hurt you. Why hadn’t she listened to her mother—Jinx knew the type, having been married for nearly two decades to a man who abused her. The car splashed water onto the sidewalk, dribbling mud onto her dress, her stockings. She probably looked like a street waif, bedraggled, dirty, starving. Her hair hung in strings around her face, and she hadn’t stopped to retrieve her coat as she escaped Valerie’s. She had, however, fled with the pearls, an oversight Cesar wouldn’t forget either.

The car turned the corner, and she stepped out of the alleyway and quick-walked down the street. The sun had begun to turn the day dismal and gray, the sky overcast with the pallor of death. Rain spit on her skin, and a cruel wind licked through her soggy, ruined dress. The rain had stirred the dank smells of dirt and rot from the alleyways, and she could still taste the tinny rinse of blood in her mouth from where Cesar slapped her.

Another car passed her and she jumped and turned away, but it didn’t slow.

Six more blocks to Central Station. Six more blocks to Guthrie and his proposal.

Six more blocks and she’d leave behind Red Worth, actress, and try on a new life as Mrs. Guthrie Storme.

If Guthrie would still have her. She wiped her face, her eyes blurring as she ducked her head into the icy rain. Why hadn’t she said yes? Why hadn’t she looked into his eyes and let herself surrender to the kindness there?

“I’m not the marrying kind, Guthrie. I’m a chorus girl, and I’m headed for show business.”

Not anymore. Not if Cesar found her. And certainly not in New York.

But it could never work between them. Guthrie was kindness and chivalry and sacrifice. She simply didn’t know what to do with that kind of affection. She needed the kind of affection that could be bartered, the kind she could control.

But now, she needed escape more. And she was willing to barter her heart for it.

A taxi shot by and she held up her hand too late, only realizing then that she had also left without her reticule.

Four blocks.

She passed an unlit storefront, mannequins in the windows, another with a display of jewelry.

What if she went home? The thought scurried inside her. She could return home, throw herself at her parents’ feet, apologize, and beg for their protection. Bennett surely had the power to keep her safe.

Except…except Cesar’s hand extended into every pocket in the city. She’d seen the men attending his party this evening. Aldermen and lawyers, businessmen and cops. They all drank his whiskey, toasted to his health. They all owed him favors.

And one day, regardless of how she hid in her home, Cesar would find a way to punish her. Maybe through her mother. Or even…She put her hand to her mouth, shaken by the thought. What if he hurt Finn?

Two more blocks. She tucked herself into an alcove of a building as another car passed, and behind it a delivery truck. She had to get off the street, and soon. She could see Central Station from here; the massive Corinthian columns, the grand clock rising above 42nd Street told her she hadn’t yet missed the train.

She just might make it.

She waited until another sedan passed then crossed the street, put her head down, and tried to conjure up some explanation for Guthrie that wouldn’t send him to the police, or worse, back to Cesar’s club with his fists cocked.

What if she’d simply…changed her mind?

She had. Between Valerie’s and the entrance to Central Station, she knew exactly what she wanted. No more show business. She would marry Guthrie and figure out how to help him with his world, his baseball career. Didn’t he call her his lucky charm? She could give him that much, and more. She’d cheer him on, like the other wives, and learn how to build a home for him.

And someday, she’d also learn how to love him.

She nearly wept when she opened the massive doors to Grand Central Terminal.

Cesar wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t guess.

The expansive ticketing area, with the domed ceiling of the skies, the massive chandeliers dripping light upon the vast emptiness, hollowed her out. She didn’t see him anywhere.

She walked into the main waiting area, the rows and rows of pews lined up like a church. A few sailors, a family of five, the children sprawled over their belongings as they slept, an elderly woman holding her valise as if someone might run by and yank it from her grip.

What if he’d already left? She pressed her hand against her roiling stomach.

Or…It was only five. Perhaps he simply hadn’t arrived yet.

She found a place in the back, a place that allowed her to survey the entire room, and scooted in, folding her arms around her. The cavernous room devoured any heat, and she shivered as she looked for a vent.

“Is this seat taken?”

She looked up at the voice and found it attached to an elderly woman, only her doughy, wrinkled face showing from the folds of her habit. Rosie frowned, looked at the empty bench beside her, the rows and rows of unoccupied spaces, and could only shake her head.

“Very good, then,” the nun said and sat on the bench, setting her valise beside her on the marbled floor. “I find it so lonely to wait for the train, and you looked like you might need a friend.”

Rosie tried to fit herself back together, hoping the bruise Cesar left behind hadn’t yet formed. She noticed the mud on her stockings, the way the gauzy rose-colored fabric of her dress had turned transparent in the rain so that perhaps even her undergarments bled through.

She put a hand to her hair, tried to smooth it.

“I see you were caught in the storm,” the nun said.

“Something like that.”

A gentleman walked into the waiting area. Not Guthrie. Her heart sank.

“My name is Sister Mary Susan.”

“Re—Rosie Worth.” She eked a smile from the despair inside.

Sister Mary Susan said nothing for a moment as a family entered the waiting area, the mother pushing a pram.

“Where are you headed, Miss Worth?”

Rosie rubbed her finger and thumb into her eyes and pulled away kohled fingers. She couldn’t imagine what a horror she must appear. “I hope to Chicago.”

“What’s in Chicago?” Sister Mary Susan leaned over, her cross swinging forward as she opened her valise.

Rosie watched a couple enter, the man carrying two suitcases, the woman in a coat and hat, dressed for travel.

Oh, what would Guthrie think when he saw her, bedraggled, dressed for a party? Surely he’d know she was desperate, and then what? Would he believe she really wanted to be with him?

“I’m supposed to meet someone here. He’s traveling to Chicago, and I’m hoping he’ll allow me to accompany him.”

Sister Mary Sue continued to rummage through her valise. Her silence indicted Rosie, and she added, “But he asked me to marry him already. We’d be married.”

A smile tweaked the sister’s lips as she sat up. She held a white wool cardigan sweater and draped it over Rosie’s shoulders. “I can’t bear to see you shivering so.”

Rosie stared at her. Hazel eyes with flecks of gold, they bore a gentle humor.

“Please, just until you warm up.”

Rosie nodded, pulling the sweater around her. Warmth seeped into her.

“So, is your young man late?” the nun asked.

Rosie refused to voice her fears. “He’ll be here.” She played with a button on the sweater. “At least he told me he would. I—I hope he hasn’t left already.”

“Certainly he wouldn’t leave without his fiancée.”

“We’re not exactly engaged…yet. He asked me, but I haven’t agreed.”

“I see. But now you are ready to agree?”

Another man walked in, stood with his briefcase in the center of the room, then made his way back out to the ticketing area. She glanced at the clock. Five thirty.

“Yes,” she said. “I—I realize that I…”

“That you love him?” Sister smiled. “That God put you together?”

Rosie didn’t think God had anything to do with their match. In fact, she felt pretty sure He hadn’t been watching any of her activities of late. Still, this was a holy woman. “Perhaps. Guthrie is a good man. Kind. And he cares for me.”

“Those are the sort worth waiting for,” the sister said.

Rosie nodded, stifling a yawn.

“You look exhausted.”

“I was up all night.” She hoped the nun didn’t ask why, although it wouldn’t take much to do the math.

Mary Susan regarded her for a moment. “If you’d like to lie down, I will watch for your young man. Tell me what he looks like.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t…” But she was so tired. And maybe if she could just rest for a moment, she might be able to untangle her panic, breathe deep, figure out how she got here.

“He’s tall and blond, with the kindest green eyes and magnificent shoulders—he plays baseball for the Brooklyn Robins.”

“Does he now?” Sister Mary Sue smiled. “I’m a fan.”

“Maybe I’ll just sleep for a moment.” She scooted away from the woman, lay down, cradling her head on her hands, drawing up her legs. “Just ten minutes. You’ll wake me?”

“Of course, dear.”

She drew in a long breath, finally feeling the warmth of the sweater touch her bones. “I don’t know why you’re being so nice to me.”

The nun patted her. “Because God loves you, Daughter.”

Rosie shook her head. “Trust me, I haven’t done anything to earn His love.”

“It’s a good thing that it can’t be earned then. The Holy Scriptures say that when we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. That settles peace in my bones at night.”

Rosie’s eyes flickered shut. “Please, Sister. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

She heard a huff of air, perhaps a chuckle. “We all have something to worry about, child. We all go to God hoping to bargain, only to discover we are fools. But it’s in our foolishness that we discover grace.”

“I’d love to know what that might look like,” Rosie said, the darkness closing around her. She still felt the nun’s hand on her shoulder.

“Shh. Rest now. I’ll make sure you find your beloved.”

Rosie was out long enough for the memories to assault her. Cesar, angry as he slapped her, then Lilly on the boat, pledging to forgive her. Dashielle in the garden, laughing at her proposal, Finn’s cry as his boat drifted away.

No, not a cry. The sound of a train whistle. She opened her eyes, feeling the edges of her hands imprinted in her face. Pushing herself up, she found the clock.

“Six thirty! I’ve missed the train.” She rounded on the sister. “You were supposed to wake me.” She wiped her face, knowing she was only making it worse.

“I have kept my word,” Mary Susan said, her face a picture of calm.

“But the train left! Are you saying he never showed up?” She got up, moved out of the pew, hating that she’d put so much into this wild hope of catching Guthrie, hating that she even needed rescue. She stood there dwarfed in the nun’s sweater, soggy and looking like she’d slept in an alley, and despised her weakness for putting her heart in the hands of Jack, then Dashielle and Lilly, of Cesar and Guthrie. Of Sister Mary Sue.

Of God.

She put her hand over her mouth and tried not to whimper, not wanting to consider what she might do next, how she might return to the Algonquin, or perhaps straight to her mother’s home, dragging Cesar and his thugs with her.

“Red?”

She stilled. Swallowed.

“Don’t go. I brought you coffee.”

She turned, and he was there. Wearing his ball coat and a pair of dark pants, a tie, his blond hair glistening, clean-shaven, those strong arms holding two cups of steaming coffee. He offered a slight smile, his eyes so sweet she could weep right there.

“Guthrie,” she breathed. “I—I thought I’d missed you.”

He glanced at Sister Mary Sue, who dusted off her habit, picked up her valise. “I believe my train is about ready to board,” she said as she stood. She met Rosie’s eyes, hers golden and bright. “So lovely to meet you and your fiancé,” she said quietly. She glanced at Guthrie and leaned close. “I believe God would approve.”

He would? Rosie offered the faintest smile. Then, “Your sweater—wait.”

The sister turned, shook her head. “Let it keep you warm on your trip. I will make another.”

Rosie couldn’t help it. She threw her arms around the sister. “Thank you.”

When she let her go, it seemed the nun’s eyes glistened. “It’s my pleasure to serve a child of God.” She patted Rosie’s cheek before she moved away.

“We have a train to catch too, Red.”

Guthrie’s voice stilled her, and she just stood there, dumb at her turn of fortune. “But I thought the train already left.”

He handed her the cup of coffee then reached into his pocket. “Not the train to Kansas City. My mother called and hoped I could come home. I would love for her to meet you.” He stepped closer and wiped the handkerchief down her cheek. “You’re a little smudged there.”

She winced at his touch, pain spearing through her. “Ow.”

He peered closer, and she wanted to shy away. “Red, did someone hit you?”

She stared at her coffee.

“It was Cesar, wasn’t it?” His tone bruised her, a hiss to his voice.

She nodded.

He looked away, his jaw tight. “Where is he?”

“Guthrie, no. Listen. I—I made a mistake. I should have said yes to you right off, but I—”

“So that’s what this is about.” He stared at her with such sadness she wanted to look away. He shook his head. “I came in and this nun started waving at me. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you there, sleeping on the bench, as if you’d actually been waiting for me—”

“I was—”

“Then she told me to go get you some coffee, and…you don’t even have a suitcase, Red. You didn’t plan this. You came here because, what? You got in a fight with Cesar?”

She looked away from him, her teeth on her lip, because yes, his words sounded right, but—“No. Yes, he hit me. And more—”

“More?”

“I’m okay. And yes, he scared me. But that’s not why I’m here, Guthrie. I…” She closed her eyes, willing herself to say it, finding it easier than she thought. “I want to marry you. I want to be your wife.”

Silence. She waited for a reply, anything, but when he said nothing, she opened her eyes.

He had put down his cup on the bench. Had his hand tented over his eyes, as if he might be crying. Or so angry that—

“Yes.” He looked up, and yes, his eyes were wet. “I don’t want to know why you’re here, why you’ll marry me. Just that you will.” He got up, took the coffee from her hand, set it beside his on the bench. “And in case you need another reminder…” He got down on one knee. “Red Worth, will you be my wife? I promise to love you for as long as I live.”

She touched his cheek, unable to speak, and nodded.

He smiled. “Very good. Because I already bought your ticket to Kansas.”

She threw her arms around him, and he caught her around the waist, picking her up, burying his head in her shoulders. “I’m going to take care of you, Red. I promise to make you happy.”

“I—I love you, Guthrie.”

He set her down, touched her forehead to his. “One day you’ll mean that.”

She started to protest, but he covered his mouth with hers, his hand on her unhurt cheek, kissing her. Sweetly, with his whole heart.

And, she kissed him back just the same, without a measure of charade.

Guthrie. His name was on her lips when she pulled away, caught in his gaze. He took her hand. “Let’s go home.”

He picked up his suitcase and retrieved her coffee. She took a sip, relishing it as they walked into the ticketing area, toward their platform. Light washed through the half-moon windows high above, like streams from heaven. Guthrie took her hand, holding it tight.

Home. Yes.

“Red. No wonder you fought me. You’ve been saving it all for baseball.”

The voice knotted in her stomach. She turned, and Cesar stood in the center of the terminal with several men grouped behind him. A bandage covered his nose. He pinned her with his dark eyes, a smirk on his face as he advanced toward her. “Did you think you could run from me? That I wouldn’t find you?”

Beside her, Guthrie took a long breath. “Leave her alone, Cesar. She’s leaving with me.”

Cesar raised his eyebrow. “Really?” He motioned to one of the men, who edged up behind Guthrie. “I don’t think so. See, she’s my new leading lady, and I’d hate to have to close the show.” He reached up to the string of pearls, grabbing hold as if Rosie might be on a leash. “She belongs to me. Isn’t that right, doll?”

She considered his smile, remembered his greasy lips on hers, and shot a glance at Guthrie. He appeared calm, just the hint of a storm behind his eyes, but she’d seen that look before when he was grappling at Vito’s.

“No, that’s not right.” She jerked her arm hard and in that same second threw her hot coffee at Cesar’s face, splashing him with the scalding liquid. He cursed, even as he yanked, hard.

The strand of pearls shattered, cascading to the floor.

Guthrie jerked into action, his reflexes quick as he put his fist into the face of Cesar’s driver. She saw blood as Guthrie caught her elbow. “Run!”

She took off, Guthrie a step behind her, toward the gated area. The conductor stood at their gate, and Guthrie shoved the tickets into his hand. She dared a look behind her and saw the driver scrambling to his feet, Cesar wiping his face with his coat, searching for her.

They were through the gate before he found them. “Red! I swear if you ever come back to New York, I’ll kill you dead!”

“Don’t listen to him,” Guthrie said as he lifted her onto the train stairs.

But she stood at the window of their car, watching as Cesar glared at her from the gate, and tried to pry the words from her soul.

Guthrie drew the shade. Then he unwound the remains of the shattered pearls from her neck. They made a well of shiny broken eggs in his hand. He tucked them into his jacket pocket then pulled her against him, his amazing arms tight around her shoulders. “You’re safe now, Red. I promise, no matter what happens, I’ll keep you safe.”