THE FIRST THING Stella saw when she opened her eyes was the same dismal grayness outside the hotel window. Rain continued to pound against the glass, making the view wavy and muted.
She knew she was alone before she sat up and looked. Nicky had that kind of presence. Maybe it was their connection or perhaps just his size, but she felt his absence like an empty stomach. There were no clues about where he’d gone and she didn’t remember being put in bed or what had been done to her feet after the soak, but something had been done. They were propped up high and, judging by their size under the blanket, they were huge. On the upside, they only ached. The burning was gone.
She wiggled her toes to make certain they were still there and a mild pain assured her that they were. She tossed off the covers and found her feet wrapped up in cotton strips like a mummy and didn’t resemble feet in size or shape. It was more like she had pumpkins at the ends of her legs, so she started unwrapping them with a tight knot of fear in her chest and prepared herself for blackened, dead skin. Instead, the swelling had gone down dramatically. Her feet, while still sausage-like, were half the size and the color was in the neighborhood of normal. Two more toenails had fallen off, leaving her with five, but she had working toes so she wasn’t about to complain. Besides, nails grew back. Her older brother, Lucien, had banged his thumb with a hammer when he was learning how to make beer barrels. His whole hand swelled up to the size of a catcher’s mitt and the nail popped off during a family dinner, landing in his pot roast. Her mother had fainted so it was a good thing she couldn’t see her daughter’s feet. Francesqua Bled didn’t have a strong stomach for that kind of thing. Sausage feet might put her in a coma.
Stella touched her left foot and discovered that it was covered in a sticky substance that when sniffed made her terribly hungry. It was honey and something else that she didn’t recognize. Dr. Salvatore was full of tricks. Why would honey be good for frostbite or anything other than toast?
Since it was clearly working, she rewrapped her feet lightly and swung them over the side of the bed. Her wet clothes were gone, but someone had thoughtfully, or perhaps distractedly, left slippers and a robe for the person who wasn’t supposed to walk. She managed to stuff her feet into the slippers, took a deep breath, and stood up. No sharp pain, just a more intense ache that was completely livable.
“We’re back in business.” Stella peeked into the large wardrobe that took up half of one wall, but it was empty. She needed Nicky and food so there was nothing to be done but to go out in public, wearing her robe and slippers. One more thing to put her poor mother in a light coma.
That wasn’t a cheerful thought, but Stella smiled as she hobbled to the door. Her mother was one thing. Uncle Josiah was another. She couldn’t wait to tell him. He’d laugh and raise a glass. They’d raise many glasses when it was all done. And it would be all done. She was better. They made it to Venice intact, minus a few useless toenails, and they’d find the Sorkines.
She left the room unlocked, tied her robe tighter, and went toward the heavenly scent of fresh coffee and baking bread. She didn’t see a clock or anyone else in the halls, but she’d be surprised if Nicky wasn’t wherever that bread was. Since they’d left Paris, he’d been eating like he’d just discovered the existence of food. She fully expected to find him eating an entire loaf and throwing back Sofia’s whiskey at an Uncle Josiah rate.
Stella kept hobbling and hobbling. She wasn’t sure how much farther it was to the desk, it hadn’t seemed such a long way when Nicky had been carrying her, but she definitely wasn’t alone in the hotel. Men’s voices echoed down the halls, coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once. None of the voices was Nicky’s though. They spoke Italian, but she couldn’t make out the exact words. Someone was demanding something and someone didn’t like it. That much she understood and it made her nervous.
She crept down the last hall before the desk and saw room A’s door crack open. An elderly woman peeked out, listening intently. Stella was about to ask if she spoke English when the woman saw her and abruptly closed the door.
Stella paused and thought she could hear German being spoken. She bit her lip and focused on those angry men again. They were definitely speaking Italian, but could they be the SS, fluent in the language? After a few more minutes, Stella’s finely-tuned ear said no. The accents were Italian with no hints of the Germanic cadence that she’d come to know and fear. Unless they were myna birds like her, they were Italian. She took a breath and continued down the hall until she heard a word she did understand. Medico. The men went back and forth and she realized that one voice was Antonio, the old man. The others she didn’t recognize. Then one of those voices said, “Doktoro Salvatore,” and her heart shot up into her throat. She turned around and saw A’s door open again, just an inch and a blue eye gazed at her curiously. Stella ignored it and started hoofing her way back to her room. Her feet began to hurt more and it was slow-going.
A’s door opened a little wider and the lady asked something in Italian. Stella shook her head and automatically asked, “Sprechen Sie Englisch?”
The blue eye widened. “Ja. Ja. Are you Am—”
A loud bang echoed down the hall. It sounded like someone had kicked the desk and the old lady reached out to grab Stella’s wrist. “Come in here. You must hide.”
Stella wasn’t sure if that was the right thing, but it was the only thing, so she went in. The old lady carefully closed the door behind her and it was Stella’s turn to have wide eyes. The room, identical to her own, didn’t only contain furniture. It had books, wall-to-wall books, stacked up on the floor waist high and covering the small side tables on either side of the canopy bed and the foot of the bed, too, where another elderly lady sat, swathed in a flower-patterned silk shawl and holding a steaming cup of what smelled like medicinal tea.
The first lady held out her hand. “Welcome, young lady. I am Karolina and this is my sister, Rosa. Please sit down.”
Stella shook her hand and obediently sat on the one chair they had next to a small cabinet filled with liquor bottles. “Thank you for letting me in. I needed to sit down.”
“Yes, of course,” said Karolina as she bustled around the room straightening books and tucking in Rosa.
If they were sisters, Stella would drink canal water. The ladies looked nothing alike. Rosa was tiny and delicate with snow-white hair and a narrow face. Stella’s grandmother would’ve called her bird-boned. If Rosa was standing, Stella guessed she would be well under five feet. Karolina, on the other hand, stood at a good six feet, maybe more. She had broad shoulders, heavy features, dyed red hair, and a restless vitality that was nothing like her “sister’s” serene manner.
“Do you know what they were saying? The men that are yelling, I mean,” Stella asked.
“They are the carabinieri and they were asking about you,” said Rosa softly.
“Me?”
Karolina sat on the bed next to a pile of books by Rudyard Kipling. “Dr. Salvatore came to see you last night, didn’t he?”
Stella wasn’t sure what to say. The cops knew about her already? How was it possible? They hadn’t even used their names one single time.
Karolina reached over and patted her leg. “Try not to be frightened. This happens now. The leggi razziali changed how the Jews live and work. Dr. Salvatore is a Jew. They are very interested in his patients.”
Stella blew out a tensely-held breath, thought about it for a second, and decided she wasn’t frightened. She was tired and irritated. “How do you know that I’m his patient?”
Karolina gestured to her feet. “I saw you last night. You couldn’t walk and this morning the carabinieri are here. It was not difficult.”
“Who would’ve told them about me? Why would anyone care?”
Rosa shrugged. “Who can say why? Money? Protection? There are informers everywhere.”
“What happened to your feet?” asked Karolina.
“I had an accident.”
“Only to your feet?”
“To all of me.” Stella smiled and pointed at the faded bruises on her face. “How long before the carabinieri go away? I really need some coffee.”
The ladies shrugged.
“Antonio will argue and they will go,” said Rosa, “as long as they don’t see you, it will be fine.”
As if a signal had gone out, the men’s voices got louder.
Stella started to speak, but Rosa held a finger to her lips. Doors were opened and slammed. Karolina’s ruddy skin paled and she jolted up, looking at the window frantically and then at Rosa, who sadly shook her head.
“Lock the door,” she whispered, but it was too late. The door flew open and a large man in a crusty, rumpled uniform marched in and pointed at Stella. He yelled something in Italian and she stared at him, unable to think what to do.
Antonio rushed in after the officer and got between the two of them. The carabinieri batted him out of the way and shouted again.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Stella, giving him the steely-eyed gaze she’d learned from her grandmother.
“You are American?” he asked, deflated.
“Canadian, actually,” she lied on instinct.
He eyed her feet and said slyly, “What treatment did Dr. Salvatore give you?”
“Who’s Dr. Salvatore?”
He sputtered. “Your doctor. He came to you last night.”
“My doctor is Dr. Davide and he’s very good. My feet are much better.”
“Dr. Davide was at a birth last night,” he said in triumph.
Stella channeled her husband and yawned, leaning back in her chair and becoming almost limp with disinterest. “I know.”
“What do you know?” he asked.
“That Dr. Davide went to a birth. He was very sorry, but he didn’t have time to do more than give me a shot. Sofia mixed up the treatment after he left.”
Another carabinieri came in and whispered in the big one’s ear. A smile lit up his face. “You are a Jew. Dr. Davide cannot treat a dirty Jew.”
Stella bolted to her feet, ignoring the pain, and stuck her finger into his chest. “I am most certainly not a Jew. But you, sir, are dirty. You should wash your uniform more often instead of running around accusing normal people of being Jews.” She stuck out a hip and tossed back her curls with a haughty glare.
The other carabinieri sneered at her. “You tried to get into the Hotel Palazzo Vittoria.”
“What of it?”
“You had no bags.”
“That’s hardly our fault.”
“Where are your bags?”
“You’d have to ask our Wagons Lit conductor,” said Stella.
“What happened to your feet?”
“I got them in your disgusting canal water. It’s terrible for the skin.”
He balled up his fists. “What is your name? Show me your identification.”
“I am Mrs. Douglas Myna and my husband has my identification.”
“Where is he?”
“Out.”
“Where?”
“I’m sure I have no idea. Canadian men do not ask permission from their wives to leave their hotel,” said Stella.
The big carabinieri reddened and he turned on Karolina and Rosa. “Show me your identification.”
Antonio began shouting at the carabinieri and pointing at the ladies. Rosa’s hands trembled slightly and she put them under the covers, almost upsetting her tea cup and saucer. Karolina watched the men with no sign of fear. She got their passports out of a drawer and handed them over as Sofia rushed in. “What is this? Capitano Bartali! How dare you enter the room of our esteemed guests?”
“I have a witness that saw Dr. Salvatore enter your hotel last night with his bag. If you have only gentiles, who was he seeing?”
“I told you,” said Stella. “Dr. Davide saw me. Now get out and go have a bath.”
“These women—”
“Have been seen by Dr. Davide,” said Sofia, smacking him with her dish towel. “You know that. You questioned them last week. Signora von Bodmann is very ill. She must rest.” She shooed the carabinieri out and then followed him, yelling what had to be Italian insults to his questionable character.
Antonio nodded. “Ci vediamo.” Then he closed the door as more shouting erupted in the hall but then it quickly faded away.
Stella fell into the chair so hard it hurt her tailbone. “Have you been seeing Dr. Davide?”
“Yes.” Rosa began to weep, soft sobs that she was almost too weak to make.
“I’m sorry I brought them in here,” said Stella, all her strength draining out of her.
“Bartali comes once a week to question us and he always forgets who we are,” said Karolina. “I think he does it on purpose to terrify us.”
“Where did you get your passports?” asked Stella.
“In Heidelberg at the rathaus.”
Stella plucked their passports off the bed where Bartali had tossed them in a rage and examined them. They were very well done, like the one Kaspar had given her after the plane crash. “So you’re Rosa and Karolina von Bodmann?”
“Yes,” said Karolina crossing her arms.
“Really?”
“Yes. Why would you think otherwise?”
“Because you’re not sisters. That’s for sure,” said Stella, yawning a real yawn that time.
“We are.”
“You aren’t. Bartali is an idiot. Look at you two. You couldn’t be more different.”
Rosa wiped her eyes. “We have the same father. Different mothers.”
“My mother,” said Karolina, “died young and father remarried Rosa’s mother.”
“It’s a good story,” said Stella. “He obviously bought it.”
“It’s the truth.”
“No.”
Karolina swallowed hard. “You aren’t Mrs. Douglas Myna.”
“No and I’m going to need a passport immediately,” said Stella. “Will you help me?”
Karolina and Rosa looked at each other, but no help was forthcoming.
“I know you’re not sisters because your accents are different.”
Karolina puffed up. “They are not. We are good German citizens and loyal to our führer.”
“Spare me,” said Stella, pointing at Karolina. “You are German, maybe even from Heidelberg. I don’t know. But you, Rosa, are Austrian.”
“It’s not true,” said Rosa, weakly. “Look at our identification.”
“I don’t care what those passports say. I have a good ear and I know what I know,” said Stella. “I’m not going to turn you in. I wouldn’t do that. I just need passports.”
“We have done nothing wrong,” said Karolina.
“Neither have I. Please give me a name. Just a name.”
The ladies looked at each other and Rosa nodded.
“Father Maximilian Girotti.”
“Thank you,” said Stella although looking for a priest in Italy was a bit like a needle in a haystack. Italy was lousy with priests.
“I’m sorry we can’t tell you more,” said Rosa. “He met us at the station. It was arranged by a friend in Heidelberg. We don’t know his church, but he does live here in Venice.”
Stella put her hand to her chest where Abel’s precious book had once been. “That’s all right. We’ll find him.”
The ladies nodded and Stella could see the fear in their eyes. She would never betray them, but they didn’t know that.
“May I?” She pointed at the stack of Kiplings.
Karolina took a breath and said, “Of course. You are an admirer of Kipling?”
“Not particularly. I love Rikki-Tikki-Tavi though. My uncle used to read it to me.” She picked up what looked like a first edition of The Jungle Book, royal blue with gilt lettering and elephants on the cover.
“Would you like to borrow it?” asked Rosa.
“You wouldn’t mind?” asked Stella. “You’re obviously collectors.”
Karolina’s lips went thinner and Stella had to do it. She opened the cover and it was as she feared. There on the inside was a bookplate, a beautiful one in an art nouveau design with a sensuous woman wrapped in a riot of leaves. Printed at the top was “Ex Libris” and at the bottom “Max Ladner.” She picked up The Second Jungle Book and it had the same book plate.
“Which one of you is Mrs. Ladner?” Stella asked.
The ladies said nothing, but Rosa began to weep again.
“You’re going to have to tear the ex libris out.”
“No. Absolutely not,” said Karolina.
“Your identification says Karolina von Bodmann.”
“That is my name.”
Stella went around the room picking up books and finding the same book plate in every one. “These books say that you aren’t who you say you are. Bartali is just too stupid to know that people with libraries mark their books. My father has his own ex libris. So do my uncles.”
“We bought them,” said Rosa trembling, “at a house sale.”
“A huge collection of first editions? I don’t think so. You have to strip the name out,” said Stella. “It’s not safe for you.”
Karolina shook her head and traced her fingers lovingly over the cover of a book of poetry. “We will not do that, but I thank you for your concern.”
“I understand.” That’s what Stella said, but she didn’t understand. It was a slip of paper pasted in a book. They took the trouble to get fake passports, but that wasn’t enough, not nearly. “In case someone asks me, what are you doing here?”
“We’re moving to Tuscany for Rosa’s health. She needs warm weather,” said Karolina.
“Then why are you still here? It’s cold and the city is practically empty.”
Rosa held out a frail hand and Karolina took it. “My sister won’t leave me.”
That Stella did understand.
The lure of coffee was too strong to hide away and wait for Nicky to show up, so Stella hobbled down the hall towards the front desk in hopes of finding something to eat and the much-needed coffee. She’d even take that evil Turkish blend they tried in Rome.
When she reached the desk, she found it unmanned with a dirty boot print on the wood. Worse, there was no coffee.
“Hello? Buongiorno?” she called out and Matteo darted out a door behind the desk with his finger to his lips.
She clamped her mouth shut and raised her palms to say, “What?”.
He pointed behind her and she turned around. Outside, beyond a set of arched double doors that she hadn’t noticed before was Nicky and a man she assumed was Bartali. She could only see his hat through the small windows at the top of the doors. It amazed her that she could tell he was angry from only a hat, but the way it jerked and bobbed, the carabinieri had to be furious. Nicky, on the other hand, was calm and bland, barely blinking in response, which probably infuriated Bartali all the more.
Stella started for the door. If Nicky hadn’t said his name yet, all wasn’t lost. She could steer the conversation.
“No,” hissed Matteo. “Signora, por favore.”
Stella glanced back and he shook his head wildly, pointing back at the door and saying something that was barely audible. All she caught was “Sofia” and “Antonio.” But that was enough to make her hesitate. Sofia knew her “name” now. Hopefully, she would think to use it. But what if she couldn’t make Nicky understand?
She went for the door again and Matteo darted around the desk and, without asking, bear-hugged her to carry her out of sight.
The door opened and Sofia’s voice echoed down the hall, much louder than necessary. “I apologize, Mr. Myna. You won’t be inconvenienced again.”
The door slammed shut and Nicky said, “What in the world was that about?”
“Your wife met Capitano Bartali and—”
“She met him? How did that happen?” He was practically shouting.
Nicky, Sofia, and Antonio arrived at the desk and simultaneously turned to see Stella and Matteo standing off to the right. Matteo let go of her and jumped back, looking tremendously guilty.
“Where have you been?” Stella thrust her chin out. Her guilty? Not a chance.
“Me?” Nicky whipped off his fedora and ran his fingers through his hair. He was probably counting to ten or some such nonsense in order not to tell her off. He needn’t have bothered. She was ready.
“Where’d you get the suit?” she asked.
He looked down at the grey suit he wore as if he didn’t know how he happened to be wearing it or the galoshes that his pant legs were tucked into. “Sofia…never mind that. What happened? Why are you out of bed?”
“I woke up. You were gone and I was starving. I came looking for food.”
That shut him up and he looked nearly as guilty as Matteo.
“You shouldn’t have come out.” He came over and swept her up in his arms before turning to Sofia and Antonio. “Thank you once again. Can you please bring us something to eat and coffee, if you have it?”
“Of course,” said Sofia. Her voice was strong, but she was bracing herself on the desk. That’s when Stella felt guilty. They came to that hotel and no doubt they’d brought a wave of misfortune with them.
“Thank you and I’m sorry,” Stella called out from around Nicky’s shoulder and Sofia gave her a weak smile in response.
“What were you thinking?” asked Nicky.
“That I was hungry, obviously,” she said. “Where were you?”
“Out.” He set her down to dig in his pocket for the room key.
“It’s open.”
He clenched his teeth and a muscle twitched on his jaw. “You left it open? Stella. God help me.”
Stella put her little nose in the air and hobbled in. “I don’t have a key and I’m not really worried about someone coming in to steal my rouge, are you?”
He closed the door. It was the quietest slam she’d ever heard in her life and her mother was the master of the quiet slam. “Someone could’ve searched our room.”
“So what?” She threw her arms wide. “We’ve got a makeup case, a dead woman’s pistol, my handbag with no money or identification in it, and a copy of The Hobbit. If they robbed us blind, we’d barely notice.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point then? And where were you? Don’t say out.”
“The ghetto.”
“You went without me?” It was Stella’s turn to clinch her jaw.
“You were asleep and time is of the essence,” he said.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
He hung his wet fedora on the radiator knob and slipped off his jacket. “Dr. Salvatore said you need as much rest as possible.”
“I’m fine. My feet are better. A lot better, in fact.”
“Not that much better.”
“We can go now. Where are my clothes?” she asked.
“They’re being cleaned, but it’s too late anyway.” He closed the wardrobe and sat down in the chair, stretching out his legs and kicking off the galoshes. “Everything’s closed and the water’s rising.”
“Had anyone seen them?”
“No, not that I was able to ask many people.”
“Well, it’s the evening. That’s to be expected.”
“I searched all day,” he said.
“All day?”
“All day.”
Stella’s brain couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. “What time is it?”
“Nearly six.” Nicky rubbed his eyes. “We need to soak your feet again.”
“Is it…tomorrow?”
He chuckled. “It is. You slept for over twenty-four hours.”
“How could I sleep that long? How could anyone sleep that long?”
“Darling, you were well past exhausted. You hadn’t really slept since we left here two weeks ago.”
“Still—”
A knock resounded on the door and Nicky went over to answer it. Sofia came in with a tray loaded with rolls, butter, and jam. A squat coffee pot and two cups sat in the center and Stella had to restrain herself from diving for it when she set it on the bed.
Nicky poured two cups and a generous amount of cream in hers. “Thank you, Sofia.”
She turned to go, but he quickly asked, “Would you please explain why you keep calling me Mr. Myna?”
Sofia stopped at the door and looked at Stella.
“I did it,” she said.
“What did you do?”
“The carabinieri wanted to know who we were. I had to say something,” she said.
“You could’ve said our names, our real names.” Nicky’s jaw was back to twitching.
“Oh, yeah? You want our names in a report? Reports are read. When the SS come looking for us, and they will, they’re going to go to the local authorities first.”
“Sofia,” Nicky nodded at their hostess, “headed him off, but he’s going to come back looking for our passports, that are Canadian, apparently.”
“We can pass for Canadians,” said Stella before tearing into a roll slathered in a ludicrous amount of butter.
Sofia grabbed the bedpost and steadied herself. “I must ask, why does the SS want you?”
“We kept them from getting someone else’s property and they aren’t happy about it,” said Nicky.
“I’m familiar with the Nazi’s love of other people’s property. What was it?”
“It’s better if you don’t know.”
She glanced around, paling slightly. “Do you still have it?”
“No,” said Stella. “But they probably think we do.”
Nicky stood up and reached behind the chair. He pulled out the basin and asked Sofia to fill it with hot water. After she left, he began pacing. “We have to go. I don’t know if we can wait until tomorrow.”
Stella pried her swollen feet out of the slippers. “We’re not leaving.”
“We don’t have Canadian passports.”
“I’m not running away. We’ll get passports and stay right here.”
“Where are we going to get passports?”
“Father Girotti.”
He gaped at her.
“He’s here in Venice and he’s done it before,” she said.
“Why would some priest help us get fake passports?” he asked. “How do you know his name in the first place?”
Stella unwound the bandages from her feet, ignoring Nicky’s wincing at the sight of them, and told him about Karolina and Rosa. He immediately went to her makeup case and pulled out The Hobbit. He opened the cover and heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s okay. No ex libris.”
“Even if there was one, it wouldn’t be Cyril’s real name or a name that could be traced.”
“You’re right. That old codger is too smart for that.”
Stella knew that to be true better than Nicky ever would. Cyril Welk helped them escape Gabriele Griese and the SS in the Vienna Westbahnhof. Stella met up with him again after she crashed Peiper’s plane near a safe house. It was clear that Cyril was some sort of spy, but what side he was on was less clear.
Sofia came back in with the water and Antonio, who carried a little box filled with bottles that Dr. Salvatore sent. He couldn’t take the chance of coming back so Dr. Davide would be by the next day. Stella was sad to hear it, but the worse news was that he wanted her to have another shot of Prontosil. Nicky and Antonio put Stella in the chair and Sofia mixed in the tinctures. The stinging seemed worse that time, but it also felt good in an odd way.
“So who wants to give me a shot?” asked Stella.
Nicky picked up the syringe. “I’ll do it.”
Sofia said she had to be going. The sight of the needle made her look like she needed to grab onto the bedpost again and Antonio rushed her out.
“How do I do this?” he asked, brandishing the needle and the little glass vial.
Stella told him and he gave her the shot like it didn’t bother him a bit. “How many rolls do you want?”
“All of them. I’m starving.” Stella licked her lips and reached for another roll.
Nicky read the directions that came with the syringe and cleaned it with a little bottle of spirits before he packed up the medications. “I hope I don’t have to do that again.”
“Well, there’s still the Eukadol for later,” said Stella, pointing at another vial.
Nicky grimaced.
“I can do it myself.”
His blank face went back on and he said, “I’ll do it.”
She gazed at him, looking for something that gave a feeling away and found nothing but detached calmness. It was unsettling.
“What?” he asked.
“It didn’t bother you to stick that needle in me. I hated doing that to Oliver.”
Just the mere thought of Oliver brought back the smell and shock of the explosions at Hans Gruber’s brewery and that dear man’s death. Stella looked down at her hands and was surprised they were clean, not covered with sticky blood with its metallic tang so strong that she could still smell it weeks later.
“You did it well,” said Nicky.
“Not as well as you. I can still see the blood and the meat of his arm when I think about it.”
Nicky squatted in front of her basin with his hands on her knees. “It bothered me tremendously, but I didn’t think it would help you if I showed it.”
“It wouldn’t.”
“Now I have something to ask you,” he said.
Stella bit her lip. She’d eaten and she was tired again. Fighting about the passports would just make him angry and change nothing.
“Why Douglas Myna?”
She brightened and sloshed her feet in the water. “Miss Myna.”
“Huh?”
“I’m Miss Myna. Remember? It’s my nickname.” She imitated Sofia’s accent perfectly.
He chuckled. “Right. I forgot. What about Douglas? I hate Douglas.”
“Aunt Eulalie says you look like Douglas Fairbanks Jr..”
Nicky screwed up his mouth in the ultimate vision of displeasure. “Do you think that?”
“Maybe a little around the eyes.” She grinned and slapped his hand. “You think you’re better looking than Douglas Fairbanks Jr..”
He stood up and crossed his arms.
“All right. You are. But you’re still Douglas. We can’t change it now.”
“And what is your name? Myrna?”
“As in Myrna Myna? I don’t think so.”
“As in Myrna Loy.”
Stella made her own displeased face. “Myrna Myna sounds stupid. And how old do I look to you?”
“Myrna Loy isn’t old.”
“She could be my mother,” said Stella.
“If she had you when she was fourteen.”
She glared at him.
“Eulalie then. That way we won’t forget.” He leaned over and cupped her face in his hands. “You’re prettier than Myrna Loy.” He kissed her and she forgot about her feet and the pain where the needle went in.
“And don’t you forget it.”
“No chance of that.”