As Bright as Heaven(81)



“It’s all right, missy. You’re in no trouble a-tall. In fact, we were hoping you’d come back this way.” His smile broadens. “My name’s Mr. Trout.”

“We?” I manage to say, my heart slamming in my chest. Why, oh why, hadn’t I waited for Howie? I look about for a clear way to dash past this roly-poly man and take off running.

“Yes, Albert and me. He heard you singing the other day when he was playing. Why, you’re a regular nightingale, missy. He told me to keep a lookout for you, and here you are!”

“Albert?” I say, unable to rein in my thoughts to come up with a better question.

“Yes.” The man nods toward the grate. “He’s our musical director, you might say. He lines up all the acts for our . . . club. He’d sure like to talk to you, Miss . . .”

“Adler.” Mama’s maiden name flies off my lips. I had no idea it had even been perched there. But I’m not afraid for my safety anymore. Mr. Trout said I sounded like a nightingale. Caution falls away as curiosity takes its place.

“Well, Miss Adler, Albert would very much like to speak with you about singing at our, ahem, venue.” He looks at the book in my hand. “Just how old are you, Miss Adler?”

The dress code at the academy demands that we girls wear starched white blouses with ruffled collars with our midnight blue skirts, and our hair pinned up off our shoulders like married women wear theirs. It’s to prepare us for life as respectable adults. I had always thought it was kind of silly to dress this way until just now. Our uniforms and coiffures make us look older than we are.

“Eighteen,” I say, as confidently as I can.

“Eighteen?” Mr. Trout echoes, his brows arched high. “You’re a bit slight for eighteen, aren’t you?”

“People come in all shapes and sizes.” I nod toward his girth.

He tips his head back and laughs. “Right you are, Miss Adler. Right you are. I take it you’re not married?”

I swallow a laugh. “I am not.”

“And your father doesn’t work for the government?” He says this in a quieter tone.

“He does not.”

Mr. Trout leans in close. “Now, you strike me as a rising star, Miss Adler. You’ve always wanted to sing on a stage with an audience captivated by your every note, haven’t you? You’ve longed for people to adore the very sound of your voice, yes? Aren’t you ready to give up tossing your talent down dirty grates to sing instead for people who will pay good money to hear you?”

I can’t answer him. I am transfixed by the images his words are planting in my head. He sounds like he is offering me rum punch, as much as I want, for the rest of my life. He is offering me escape from my everyday life. And not only that, but adoration.

The music below us suddenly stops.

“So, then,” Mr. Trout continues, “might you consider lending your dulcet tones to our little stage? Albert is prepared to pay you the going rate for a vocalist of your quality.”

“I might,” I finally say.

He leans in even closer. “Come back tonight at ten o’clock so you can speak to Albert, then. Use the door around back. The password is Cincinnati.”

“Ten o’clock?” I gasp.

He frowns a bit. “Keep your voice down, Miss Adler. Yes, ten o’clock.”

I look toward the grate. “Why can’t I talk to Albert now?”

“Because it’s not even four o’clock in the bloomin’ afternoon!” He laughs again, but this time at my na?veté.

“Oh.”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

By ten, everyone in the Bright household is usually in bed asleep. Usually. Sometimes I will see a seam of light under Papa’s bedroom door. Sometimes Maggie is still awake. Alex is always fast asleep. Evie, if she’s home, will have gone to bed long before then; she’s always exhausted by the time she makes it back to us. “Not if I can sneak out.”

Mr. Trout smiles conspiratorially. “Sneaking out will be good practice for you. You’ll want to be good at keeping secrets from now on, if you know what I mean.” He winks.

I suddenly want to get away from him. I need to think. I need for my heart to stop its wild thrumming. “I should be going.”

He tips his derby to me. “See you tonight.”

I start to walk away and he reaches out to stop me. “One more thing. What’s your first name, love?”

Again, the name Mama was called when she was my age falls from my lips before I can wonder why. “Polly.”





CHAPTER 53



? October 1925 ?





Maggie


A crisp autumn breeze is scuttling the leaves at our feet as Palmer and I stroll down Walnut Street. We have just left a lovely French restaurant, and though the food was delectable, Palmer wasn’t his usual talkative self. His thoughts seemed far from me. He would ask a question about my day or the family or what I was reading, and I’d answer, but he wasn’t hearing my replies. They seemed to float in one ear and tumble out of the other. At one point, I asked if he was feeling well, and he’d replied that he was fine. But I could tell something was distracting him, and I couldn’t help wondering if perhaps he’d met someone else—another woman—and needs to break off with me. I would have asked him right then at dinner if there was something he needed to tell me, but I couldn’t summon the courage.

Susan Meissner's Books