In the Shadow of Lakecrest(10)

“It’s time I took you somewhere nice.”

I told him I’d have to change before going to such a swanky place, but Matthew laughed and said I looked just fine. His look of pleased satisfaction was enough to reassure me until we arrived at the hotel, where I had to pretend to ignore the glances and whispers exchanged all around us. Matthew nodded curtly to a few fellow diners, but he didn’t greet anyone by name, and he grew steadily more silent as the meal progressed. Confused and disappointed, I tried to revive the romantic sparks between us, but Matthew answered my flirtatious questions in a monotone voice. When the waiter asked about dessert, Matthew abruptly demanded the check and said we had to leave for another engagement.

We emerged onto Michigan Avenue, which was hazy in the dim light of sunset.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“It’s a surprise.” He hailed a taxi, and we were soon settled inside. “Won’t take long. It’s not far.”

Only a few days earlier, I would have been thrilled to be whisked away on a mysterious outing. Now, I was hurt by Matthew’s secretiveness and by his eagerness to avoid anything below the surface of our conversations. Throughout dinner, I’d waited for him to mention our kiss, to acknowledge that it had meant something. Because if it hadn’t, I’d judged Matthew—and myself—all wrong.

“I need to tell you something.” I lowered my voice so the driver wouldn’t overhear. “I got a letter from my mother yesterday. Asking when I was coming home.”

She’d had plenty more to say, too. Questions about whether I’d landed my big catch and exactly how much money the Lemonts had. But Matthew didn’t need to know about that. I’d burned the letter right after reading it.

“There’s no rush to get back, is there?” Matthew asked. “We’re having such fun.”

“Yes, but I can’t live off Blanche’s charity forever. I need a job and a place to live. I have to start being practical.”

“So, you want to stay?”

“Why wouldn’t I, with this kind of welcome?”

Matthew took hold of my hands. “I’m so glad, but I don’t want you worrying about money. Let me help.”

“No! Can’t you see how that would look? Like I was some sort of . . . kept woman.”

The mortification on Matthew’s face made it clear he’d had no such intention, thank God. I wouldn’t be tempted to follow my mother’s example.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll figure something out.” I decided not to tell him Blanche had offered to get me a job at the Pharaoh’s Club as a cigarette girl, vamping around in a gold slave-girl costume. I already knew he wouldn’t approve.

The taxi pulled to a halt, and the driver announced, “Chicago Theatre.” I stepped out and gawked at the enormous illuminated sign across the street.

“You said you’d never seen a talkie,” Matthew said from behind me. “Now’s your chance.”

The lobby and the sprawling movie palace inside were so ornate that I wondered how anyone could concentrate on the pictures, but Matthew barely responded to my eager comments. I followed him up to the balcony, where only a scattering of seats were filled, and settled in next to him. When the newsreel started, he reached his arm around me.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so dense,” he said.

“It’s all right.” Already distracted by the images on the giant screen, I was ready to escape into a fantasy world. To let go of the questions that churned through my mind whenever I was with Matthew: What are we doing? What comes next?

“I don’t want you worrying about money,” he said. “I don’t want you worrying about anything. From now on, I’m going to take care of you.”

“I already said—”

“I want to marry you, Kate. I’m head over heels in love with you, so why wait?”

My heart surged with a relief so intense and overwhelming I could hardly breathe. I’d done it. I’d convinced Matthew Lemont to marry me.

Or had I? Matthew was in love with Kate Moore, a role I’d crafted to please him. He didn’t know the truth about my family; he didn’t even know my real name. I’d pursued Matthew the way my gambler father chased a royal flush, never really believing it would pay off. Now I had the proposal I’d dreamed of, but I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“Dear God, I’m such a dolt,” Matthew said. He looked nervous and fretful, a little boy craving reassurance. “I’ve gone about this all wrong. I should have bought you flowers and chocolates and asked your father for permission . . .”

He stopped, flustered, remembering my father was dead. I imagined Matthew telling my mother, how she’d shriek with joy. Matthew’s polite reserve giving way to shock when she told a dirty joke or let slip a compromising detail from her past.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

Matthew’s anxious expression softened. “I want to marry you. More than anything.”

Unlike Matthew, I wasn’t deliriously in love; I’d spent a lifetime keeping my emotions locked tight. But I genuinely liked him, and I knew he’d be kind. Don’t think, I told myself. Leap.

“All right.”

In retrospect, it seems impossible that such ordinary words could have ushered me into an entirely new life. It never occurred to me that Matthew had secrets of his own, that we’d both been modeling our best selves for the other’s admiration. I had no idea what it meant to link my future with his. No idea what I’d be driven to do for his sake.