The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(36)
“Ask who? Lucy? She don’t even work here no more!”
“But . . .”
“These hostess clothes belong to Itchy.”
“You sure . . .” Abigail offered up a half-hearted protest, but as the words rolled from her mouth she untied her own sash and allowed the blue dress to drop to her ankles. The rose-colored gown cascaded across her shoulders, the silver beads clinking softly as rubbed-thin dimes jingling through the bottom of an overcoat pocket. “I sure hope Mister Itchy doesn’t mind,” she mumbled, but by that time she was already grinning at the reflection in the dressing room mirror.
“See!” Gloria said, nodding her approval. “Much better. ‘Course you need some rouge and a bit more lipstick.” That night when Club Lucky opened there was a new hostess on the floor, a girl with darkened eyelashes and rose-colored lips, a girl that didn’t exist a few days ago.
As they walked out onto the floor of Club Lucky, Abigail whispered into her friend’s ear, “Now, what am I supposed to do?”
“Do what I do,” Gloria answered. “Look available. Flirt with the men. Be real polite to the ladies, especially the hoity-toitys.”
“How will I know –”
“You’ll know,” Gloria answered and then she sashayed across the room before there was time to ask anything else. Abigail suddenly felt awkward – a scarlet rose in a garden of white lilies – a child dressed in grown-up clothes. Maybe, she thought, she’d been wrong about the gown – it now seemed somehow gaudy, something a woman of low morals might wear. Trampish. For a long while, she considered going back to the dressing room and resurrecting her blue silk frock, despite its prissy sash. At least that dress wasn’t gilded with silver spangles. Rolling this thought over in her mind, she lingered along the far edge of the room, a spot where a person could slip off without being noticed. But instead of leaving, she stood there shifting her weight from one foot to the other, trying to make herself look inconspicuous, trying to convince herself that the hostessing business was a perfectly proper thing.
She couldn’t guess how long she’d been standing there – Ten minutes? Three hours? – But in whatever time had passed, the room became noisy and filled with people. Sounds of raucous laughter ping-ponged from wall to wall and the musicians honked out one brassy tune after another. Abigail tried envisioning herself as a puff of smoke, floating across the room, disappearing through the vent – avoiding the heartbreak of another mistake. She had already started ruminating on how she should never have taken the hostessing job, when a heavy arm settled across her shoulder.
“Hey, Cutie,” a man older than her father said. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Umm.” Abigail nodded and tried valiantly to dredge up a smile, but it felt like the muscles in her face were paralyzed. “Actually,” she confessed, “I’m a hostess.” She whispered the word hostess.
The man laughed. “New, huh?” At first he had seemed almost threatening, but as he spoke, his expression eased into a rounder, softer countenance and his smile was as kindly as any Abigail had ever seen. She nodded and returned the smile. “Don’t worry, kid,” he said, then took hold of her arm and led her to a small table alongside the bar, “You’ll do fine, you got pizzazz.” He slid the chair out and motioned for her to sit.
As far as Abigail could remember, it was the first time anyone had ever suggested she had pizzazz – in fact, she wasn’t all that certain what the elusive quality actually was. She knew it had nothing to do with making great pies or aspiring to someday be a writer. Pizzazz was a special kind of sparkle reserved for wealthy debutantes and the flapper ladies of Vanity Fair magazine. “Gosh,” she murmured breathlessly, her cheeks blossoming to the same shade of scarlet as her dress.
“Pete,” the man called over to the bartender, “fix us up with some gin and a bottle of champagne for the little lady.” He turned back to the table and said, “I’m assuming Itchy told you to order champagne, right, cutie?”
She nodded, then shyly offered up her name.
“I’m Tommy.” He said. “Tommy Anderson.”
For the remainder of the evening Abigail sat alongside Tommy Anderson and listened as he told her of how he’d been smart enough to steer clear of the stock market and how he was now buying up real estate for a song. He told of how he’d hooked a big fish and then tumbled overboard into the lake. He laughed and Abigail laughed with him. He poured champagne and she sipped it, hesitating just long enough to allow the bubbles to tease the tip of her nose. As the evening wore on Abigail began to picture the years erasing themselves from Tommy’s face – first the deep forehead ridges, then the fleshy valleys that traveled down toward his jaw and finally the small crease that bridged the gap between his eyebrows. They danced to a mellow rendition of Who Stole My Heart Away and swaying to the sound of a muffled trumpet, Tommy Anderson eased her head down onto his shoulder. She didn’t pull away because it was, for the moment, a comforting feeling, something she could snuggle down into – a warm place, a safe harbor. When the song ended she noticed that the silver-haired man was wearing a much younger face.
As the evening drew to a close, he leaned across the table and took hold of her hand. “Wanna make whoopee?” he whispered. “I got a hotel room.”