The Game of Love and Death(22)

“Lots,” Annabel said, hiccuping.

“Like what? Can you sing me one?”

“No,” Annabel said. “Ladies don’t sing in public. Mother says.”

Flora laughed. “Some do. I’m pretty sure of it.”

“Henry sings sometimes,” Annabel said, “because he is not a lady.”

Flora laughed again. “You look as if you could use something to clean up that flood on your face.” She opened her pocketbook and took out a handkerchief with her name embroidered on it.

“Flora,” Annabel read. “Henry talks in his sleep about someone named Flora, even though he is supposed to marry cousin Helen the Hellion.”

“Annabel!” Henry said. “That’s not true!” He wondered what the odds were that the earth might open up and swallow him then.

“Yes, you do,” she said. “I heard you last night when I was getting a drink of water. And Mother says you and Helen are a perfect match even if I am not to say hellion.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t do any such thing.” Flora looked as if she’d like to be anyplace else.

Henry stood and brushed off his slacks. This was not going well, and he wanted to make a quick escape. Maybe a unicorn would materialize and he could gallop away in style. “It’s been swell to run into you again. I mean, not the almost crashing part. But just seeing you. I hope you liked the article.”

“Are you a maid?” Annabel said.

“Annabel!” He wished for invisibility or time travel or just a really big box to climb inside.

“I’m not a maid,” Flora said. “I fix planes and I fly them. And yes, I did like it. Ethan got most of the facts right.”

“Well, you look like our maid.”

“Flora’s a singer too,” Henry sputtered, wondering which facts he’d botched, feeling a shameful level of relief that Ethan was taking the blame for the errors. “A great one. And your mother is wrong about ladies singing onstage, just as she was wrong about girls riding bicycles.” This was not how he’d imagined telling Flora that he admired her voice. Oh, God.

“You and our maid are both colored,” Annabel said. “And Mama says the colored people make the best maids. Sometimes our maid sings. She only knows church songs, though.”

“Well!” Flora said. “Isn’t that an interesting story.” She looked as finished with the meeting as Henry. He hoped Annabel had exhausted the opportunities to mortify them.

Almost, but not quite.

“Can I keep this?” Annabel held the handkerchief out.

Flora’s face softened. “Yes, you may keep it.”

“I’ll share with Henry. I promise.”


Flora laughed again. “I’m sure he’d love that.” She adjusted her hat, tugged at her gloves, and gave a relieved smile that almost countered the strange look in her eyes. “And now I have to be off. It’s been nice to see you again.”

She turned toward the nearby cemetery, and as she walked away, Henry called after her.

“Flora! It was —” What did he want to say? That it was nice seeing her too? He’d already said that, and it would ring false anyway. He pushed his hair off of his forehead. “I’ll — I’ll see you around. I hope.”

She looked back over her shoulder and gave him a small wave. He wanted to say something else, something more definitive. Or even suave, to salvage the scraps of his dignity. But he couldn’t find the words. Though they stood only a few yards apart, what felt like miles of embarrassment stretched between them.

She turned toward the path and was on her way.





FROM the floor of the Domino, the white steps leading to the stage looked substantial. Like the kind of marble used to carve an angel for a church or graveyard, the kind of thing that could withstand eons of rain and lightning. From the top, they were anything but. They were wood, coated in glossy paint to reflect the most light from the chandeliers, and flimsy enough to vibrate with the music of the band. Flora had to be careful not to step in the wrong place, or they’d sag. So many things in life were not what they appeared. It was a wonder she trusted anything.

But she trusted herself as she made her way down the steps, aware of the audience, aware of the steadiness of Grady’s bass line supporting her. That reliability. It was supposed to be enough. She put one hand on the microphone, then another, as if she were cradling a face. Only it wasn’t Grady’s she was thinking of.

She opened her mouth and let the first note rise, acutely aware that Henry wasn’t there for the first time in weeks, probably because of their run-in at the park. What a disaster, even if it had broken the weird spell between them. She was more disappointed at his absence than she could have believed, and the feeling leaked into her song. But she didn’t mind. There was little difference between disappointment and yearning.

She closed her eyes and sang, focusing on technique. Shutting out the audience helped, and by the end of the number, she felt more herself again. She opened her eyes, and there he was, at his usual table. The surprise made her miss her cue for the next song by a half beat, and she had to rush to catch up. The band covered for her, but Grady shook his head and looked at her with pity.

As her irritation hardened into anger, she could feel it color the song. She worried she might lose control of the performance. This only frustrated her more, so she was surprised to notice the effect it had on the audience. People leaned forward. They set down their cocktail glasses. Some held their forks midway to their mouths. Encouraged, Flora focused on the notes, making each as heartfelt as she could. The full disaster of her feelings spread from the deepest part of her and flooded the room. The band responded, Grady especially, turning heat into sound.