Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(70)
Aye, that she did. But that would never work. She had known that from the beginning, and yet she had still, foolishly, let herself become besotted with Duke – that cinema poster’s rugged male persona that was the hero of all legends and lore told amid the caravans’ vardos, sleeping dogs, and wailing babies of her gypsies′ nomadic forefathers.
Forceful presence mixed with virile masculinity. The stuff real men were made of. An iron will combined with genuine caring . . . and, oh, his slow, sure, and sexy walk and talk. That was the S&S Duke.
That iron will, that determination to find a proper wife, most likely Charlotte it would be, that was Romy’s death knell. Not that she wanted to be his wife. Not after watching her parents murder each other.
Liar, liar, pants afire.
Bugger! She was merely in a romantic delirium. Smitten and nothing more.
And, alas, Duke’s moral convictions were as strong as his male magnetism. For all his indestructability, there was still something alone and lonely about him, something distant and cynical . . . and yet, ironically, lovable – with his devastating smile that would haunt her forever. And forever, she would recall that urge to lean against him, like leaning against a strong tree.
If she allowed herself to lean against anyone, it would be Gideon. They were two of a kind. Shared the same background. Understood one another. She owed him a lot for helping give her a chance with America’s entertainment industry. But, alas, he too, was headstrong on having a proper bride. And was not Miriam perfect for him?
“Nay, I dunna want to go back to Texas, Stanley. I have been trying to tell you I heard on the radio that, what with Britain expecting Luftwaffe air raids, its Ministry of Health is seeking nurse assistants. It is guaranteeing a salary of ￡40 to nursing students in training. Double what hospitals are paying. I am applying.”
“Why?” Stanley asked with a stupefied expression. “When you have the potential of making millions? That makes no sense.”
Well, she had never been sensible.
“Because I dunna want potential. I want now. And now will take me one step closer to Ireland.” And farther from Duke and Gideon – and catastrophe in the form of Johnson, or worse, Moe Keller.
“But the Grand Ole Opry has a contract with you,” Stanley pointed out in an attempt at reasonableness.
The anguish of a trapped wild creature glistened in her eyes. “With Romy Sunshine. Someone who doesn’t even really exist. Not on paper – nor in me spirit.”
§ § §
“Rising Local Star Nixes Opry”
Gideon choked on his morning’s office coffee. His gaze jumped from The Austin Statesman headline down to the brief one-paragraph article.
“According to Grand Ole Opry officials, their newest Texas vocal star, Romy Sunshine, yesterday traded her contract for country. Just which country is anyone’s guess, as the spirited Spanish guitar player charmingly claimed, when recently interviewed, ‘The world is me country.’”
Cracked. Capricious. Complex. Romy was all that – and more. An exquisite shamrock with atrocious manners. But, hell, Gideon figured he must be cracked too, because . . . because . . . oh, hell!
He snatched up the desk phone and asked the Capitol’s switchboard operator to put in a call to the S&S. While Gideon waited, rain sluiced down his office window, which lent hope Duke might be confined by the inclement weather to his own office.
“S&S,” the big man growled.
“Gideon here – and by the graveyard tone of your voice, I take it Romy is not at the S&S?”
A pause, then, “She’s not in Nashville?”
“Not since three days ago. Today’s Austin Stateman reports she has left the Grand Ol’ Opry.” Gideon fingered his scar, then asked, “If not back to the S&S, where do you think she would go?”
Another pause, then Duke drawled, “As unpredictable as Romy is, she could be anywhere.”
“Listen, I am going to ring a contact at the Opry, Stanley Davenport, and find out what he might know. I’ll get back with you.”
“You can find me through Rabbi Hickman.”
Now it was Gideon’s turn to pause. “Rabbi Hickman?”
“Yeah. Like I said, Romy could be anywhere, but I’d bet the ranch she’s on her way to Ireland – and most likely to ship out from the same place she shipped into. Soon as I arrange for Jock to cover for me here, I’m on my way to Galveston.”
“Swing by and pick me up, will you?”
And yet another pause. “Why should I?”
“Because two heads are better than one.”
A cynical sounding chuckle rolled from Duke. “Romy would twist that saying all around, given the chance.”
“Let’s give her the chance.”
§ § §
Once again, Romy presented herself at Galveston’s Port of Entry. Early that morning, its warehouse-like offices, musty and smelling of sweat, were congested with lines of people fleeing Nazi persecution, now that Germany was attacking more of its neighbors.
A small number of refugees were being admitted under the quota system, but most were being turned away. For those poor wretched souls, she wanted to weep.
Those seeking to voyage to Europe were scanty. Which made her present endeavor mind boggling to most.
Irina’s purse placed primly atop Romy’s knees and the battered suitcase Micah had given Romy at her feet, she sat beside the Cunard White Star desk.