The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(37)



Abigail yanked loose her hand. “What kind of a girl do you think I am!” she stammered indignantly.

“You’re a hostess!” Tommy snapped back, then he stuffed a handful of bills back into his pocket and lumbered away.

By the time Abigail pulled herself together and started back to the dressing room, the crowd had been reduced to a few lingering drunks. As she inched her way across the floor, Itchy grabbed hold of her arm. “How’d you do?” he asked as he stood there scratching his crotch.

“Do? I did what any girl ought to do when a man tries to get fresh!” Abigail answered indignantly. “Being a hostess is not the same as being a trollop!” She was trying to hold back the tears and at the same time keep her eyes fixed on Itchy’s face.

“Huh? Who said any such –” Itchy grimaced a bit and switched over to digging at his crotch with the other hand.

“Mister Tommy Anderson, that’s who!”

Itchy laughed. “Tommy? He’s harmless. A sweet old guy – but gets a load on and right away thinks he’s a jazzbo.”

“He asked me –”

“Guys do that. Just tell ‘em to go fly a kite!” Itchy shrugged and walked off, still scratching like he’d zeroed in on a nest of fleas.

A half-hour later, he came back to the dressing room and dolled out the tips. Gloria got five dollar bills, Abigail got three. “See,” Itchy said, grinning as he handed her the money, “Old Tommy Anderson took good care of you!” He shuffled out the door, still digging at his crotch.

Once he was well out of earshot, Abigail said, “You ever notice how Itchy keeps scratching his do-hickey?”

“Notice?” Gloria laughed. “Everybody’s noticed! How do you think he got the name Itchy?”

It was almost three o’clock in the morning, her head was throbbing and there was a stiff breeze nipping at her back, but none of these things bothered Abigail as she walked home that night; she was busy thinking about how she was going to spend the three dollars. At the top of her list was a stewing chicken. She’d buy it first thing in the morning, boil it for an hour and then eat the whole thing – every last bit. Maybe she’d get a bag of flour and make dumplings as well – not the light as a cloud dumplings, but big doughy ones, the kind that would settle into her stomach and fill up all the cracks and crevices that had been empty for so long. Yes, she decided, flour. Coffee and sugar too!

Hostessing was never on the list of jobs she’d considered, but it was a lot better than going hungry. Somehow having three dollars in your pocket made things seem remarkably more respectable.




As it turned out, Club Lucky, a place Abigail had never before heard of, was one of the hottest night spots in all Richmond. In addition to Tommy Anderson and several more of his ilk, she met up with a young man whom she had seen at the ballet, and two ladies who were at one time members of Miss Meredith’s Museum Restoration Committee. Every evening the room grew crowded with people – frivolous thrill seeking women, businessmen, jazzed up dancers, toughs looking for a brawl – people whose paths would usually never cross mingled at Club Lucky – at times they stood shoulder to shoulder, squashed together so that a person could barely make their way across the room. The music never stopped. Night after night Abigail would trudge back to the apartment with her feet aching and the strains of Show Me the Way to Go Home still pounding in her ears. Her sleep was restless and her dreams frenzied, full of faceless partygoers, blaring trumpets and swirling colors. She often woke in the morning with the smell of cigar smoke lingering in her nose and a purple bruise reminding her of some raucous reveler who’d given her a playful pinch.

Paul Martell seemed to be an exception. He was a Frenchman in his early thirties, not a regular at Club Lucky, but a man with fistfuls of money to spend, and a large diamond ring on his pinky. A person couldn’t help but notice Paul for he stood a head taller than most of the crowd and had a rakish crop of dark curls that tumbled down upon his forehead. His green eyes were flecked with gold, a look, it was said, that drove women wild. The first encounter Abigail had with him, left her with stars in her eyes. “He’s a dreamboat,” she whispered to Gloria, “the kind of man I’ve always imagined myself marrying.”

“Paul?” Gloria replied. “I heard he’s trouble. Watch out.”

“Trouble?” Abigail echoed doubtfully and then walked off.

The next night Paul Martell danced with Abigail for most of the evening and flamboyantly ordered her a second bottle of champagne while the first bottle was still half-full. In-between dances they sat at a tiny table in the darkest corner of the room, chairs pushed so close together that a breeze couldn’t pass between them. He dazzled her with tales of France and she wound the image of herself through every word. When the band played Moonlight on the Ganges, they danced again and as Paul’s large hand pressed Abigail’s body to his, she snuggled into the crook of his neck. “I’m not really a hostess,” she whispered. “This is temporary – ‘till I can find a writing job.”

He didn’t answer, just lowered his head and let his breath graze her hair as his right hand eased its way down the back of her spine.

That night Paul left a ten dollar tip for Abigail, which according to Gloria was the largest any girl at Club Lucky had ever received.

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