The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(35)

“Well then, you did the right thing. A person oughtn’t marry unless they’re one-hundred-percent in love.” Gloria pulled out a glass jar, gulped down some of the red liquid then passed it over to Abigail. “Raspberry tea. Want some?”

“Thanks.” Abigail took a drink then handed the jar back.

“Hell’s fire!” Gloria moaned, swiping at a red droplet that drizzled down her bosom. “I’ve ruined my brand new blouse!”

“Ruined?” Abigail laughed, “Why, that’s just a teeny-weenie spot. That comes out when you catch it right away.” Together they walked over to the water fountain on the far side of the park and Abigail using her handkerchief washed the spot from Gloria’s shirt. “Good as new,” she smiled.

As they left the park, Gloria said, “Could be, I might be able to fix you up with a job. That is,” she added, “if you ain’t squirrelly about what you gotta do.”

“Me? Squirrelly? No indeed! Why, I used to scrub out my papa’s chamber pot! I’m one who believes you gotta do what you gotta do.”

Gloria laughed thunderously. “This ain’t no scrub lady job. It’s hostessing.”

“Hostessing?”

“Yeah. Smile, give guys the big eye; let them buy you a drink, stuff like that.”

“A whiskey drink?”

“Whiskey, gin, whatever.”

“But, that’s illegal.”

“Oh well, excuse me for breathing! I thought you was desperate.”

“I am.”

“Well, then.”

“This is a speakeasy, right?”

“Itchy don’t call it no speakeasy, he calls it a club.”

“Can’t the people who work there get arrested?”

“Uh-uh,” Gloria shook her head. “Itchy takes care of the cops.”

Maybe if she hadn’t been hungry for so long, maybe if she wasn’t down to her last dollar and fearful of being evicted, maybe then Abigail would have stopped to think of what her father or Preacher Broody might say about such thing, but as it was she simply smiled and told Gloria that she’d love to get such a job.

“If I get you the job,” Gloria said, “will you teach me how to typewrite?”

“Absolutely!” Abigail answered. “Absolutely!”



Two days later Abigail accompanied Gloria cross-town to Club Lucky. “This is the place?” she gasped when they rapped on the back door of a building that gave the appearance of a closed-down factory.

“Yeah,” Gloria answered with a grin.

Club Lucky was a place where a pair of eyes peered through an opening in the door and then decided whether or not to allow a person inside. There were no introductions, no applications to fill out, no references needed.

It was late afternoon so other than the watchdog who opened the door and an old man stacking glasses on the bar, the club was empty. Gloria guided Abigail through a clutter of empty tables and into a brightly lit back office. “This here’s the girl I told you about, Itchy,” she said and shoved Abigail forward.

Itchy peered over his glasses and told Abigail to swing around so he could get a gander from behind. She’d expected that he might inquire about her previous experience or possibly even ask about her qualifications but she hadn’t thought he’d want to inspect her rump so she just stood there looking bewildered. Gloria suddenly took hold of Abigail’s shoulders and whirled her around. “See that,” she said, “nifty, right?”

“Kinda skinny,” Itchy answered, “but she’ll do.” He lowered his gaze back to the newspaper he’d been reading. “Thirteen bucks a week, plus tips,” he grumbled, “You keep a smile on your face and order champagne when you got a big spender.”

“Yes sir, Mister Itchy,” Abigail answered. She was going to say that it was a true pleasure to be working for him but before she had the chance, Gloria hustled her back out the door.

What Itchy said was true. Abigail had grown thin, bone thin in fact, skinny enough that the blue silk dress hung from her shoulders like a shapeless curtain. She’d chosen that particular dress based upon Gloria’s description of the job – with its pale ivory lace and seed pearls rimming the neckline, it was the most elegant frock in her closet. But she hadn’t worn the dress for well over a year, not since the last time she’d accompanied Miss Meredith to the ballet, and by some odd circumstance, it had come to be weary looking during that time, droopy and tired, lackluster, almost as drab as Abigail imagined herself to be.

“You need something jazzier,” Gloria said. “Something with fringe, maybe?”

Abigail sighed. She’d never pictured herself in fringe, but the sound of it was silky as rosewater and glycerin. “Fringe?” she repeated wistfully.

“Yeah, that’s it!” Gloria squinted at her protégé, then walked full around her as if she were registering a measurement. “You look to be the same size as Lucy; I’ll bet one of her dresses –” Gloria tugged a rose-colored gown splattered with silver beads and rows of fringe from the rack and handed it to Abigail. “Try this.”

“Without asking?” Abigail replied, but she could already see the fringe swaying to and fro as she danced the Charleston.