Born of Illusion (13 page)

If not for his obvious discomfort, I might have laughed out loud.

I want to ask about the two pins he deceived me with but don’t want to risk him asking how I usually do the trick, so I switch subjects again. “So what are you doing in America?”

For a time, it seems as if he might not answer, but then he says quietly, as if speaking to himself, “I think I was supposed to find you.”

We reach the bottom of our stoop and I stop. “What do you mean by that?”

Cole’s licorice eyes are mysterious. Why could I read him so easily before and not at all now?

“I wanted to tell you . . .” He clears his throat as if embarrassed. I wait. “You are bewitching onstage.”

My breath catches and he looks down at the ground.

“I mean, you’re really good.”

Warmth spreads across my chest. “Thank you.”

His head rises and he draws closer.

“Your mother is a fraud, but you aren’t, are you, Anna?”

Eleven

I
pull my arm out of his, alarm racing through my body. What am I supposed to say to that? The answer condemns both me and my mother. A thought strikes me. “That’s why you didn’t second-guess me earlier, isn’t it? When I said I could still feel someone there?”

I take his silence for affirmation and my heart skips a beat. How much does he know? And more important, how does he know it?

My breath catches in my throat and a long moment plays between us. There are so many things I want to ask, but I’m afraid anything I say will reveal more about me than I’ll learn in return.

Just as I turn to open the door, Jacques’s car stops in front of us. My mother steps out. She’s dressed up, which means she stopped by the house while I was out.

“Where have you been? We’ve been trying to reach you all evening.”

“I went for a walk and got lost.” No need to mention Houdini, though his book, tucked away in my purse, weighs on me like one of Houdini’s own mammoth chains.

My mother’s perfectly painted lips purse. “Really, darling, how careless of you.” An eyebrow arches as she realizes I’m not alone. “Mr. Archer?”

His name is a question and Cole hurries to explain. “I ran across Anna when she was lost and escorted her home.”

I throw him a grateful glance, glad that he didn’t mention that I’d been running, terrified, through the slums when he found me.

“How fortuitous for Anna,” my mother murmurs.

Cole gives a courtly little nod. “I was glad to be of service.”

The formality, which had dropped away during our walk, is back, and I wonder if my mother makes him uncomfortable.

I try to see my mother as a stranger would. Her quilted lamé evening wrap is banded with black satin and encrusted with crystal beads. Her arms drip with costume jewelry, and she’s wearing more than her usual amount of makeup. She looks rich and intimidating.

Or maybe Cole’s uncomfortable because he knows she’s a fraud and a cheat.

The back door to the car opens and Owen gets out. I feel Cole stiffen beside me. Owen looks like a dashing man about town in his fashionably cuffed trousers and tightly fitted jacket. His sophistication is only slightly marred by the wide smile that lights up his face when he sees me. In contrast, Cole, glowering in his plain dark suit, looks like a grumpy undertaker. I have to hide a smile.

“Your carriage awaits, milady!” Owen sweeps an arm toward Jacques’s dark red Packard Phaeton. “Willest thou goest?”

I cross my arms and, aware of Cole’s disapproval next to me, try not to smile at Owen’s antics. “Depends on where we’re going.”

“To the moon, sweets, to the moon!” Owen gives me a wink and I laugh out loud.

“Oh, stop your silliness,” Mother says. “We’re going to The Colony for a late supper.”

She shoos me upstairs to change, but I pause to glance at Cole, who’s still frowning at Owen. “Good-bye, Cole, and thanks . . . for walking me home.”

He nods curtly.

I open the door and the last thing I hear is Owen introducing himself. “Hello there, old boy. I’m Owen.”

I snort as I follow my mother upstairs, wondering what Cole thinks of being called an “old boy.”

“Look what I bought for you today!” my mother says once we reach my bedroom.

I’m about to chastise her for spending money when I see the peach georgette evening dress trimmed with silver seed beads and glittering rhinestones. It’s unbelievably stunning. Without a word, I let her help me change and then stare into the mirror, unable to believe the transformation. The filmy material clings subtly to my body before falling in graceful folds to just below my knees. The rich, glowing color complements my dark hair and warms my skin. For the very first time I feel almost as beautiful as my mother. I turn to her with shining eyes. “It’s lovely. Thank you so much.”

She turns to the vanity table. “Just don’t spill anything on it at the restaurant. Now we need to hurry. We’ve kept the boys waiting long enough.”

She helps me with my cosmetics—deepening my eyes with kohl and spit block and painting a bow shape onto my lips with rouge. Once she deems me ready, we rush down to the car in record time.

I climb in beside Owen, delighted by the admiration in his eyes. He’s so handsome with his silky blond hair and dimples that it’s hard to believe I’m going out on the town with him. The feeling is only partially spoiled by the fact that my mother and manager are sitting in the front seat. In spite of Owen’s silliness, it’s clear that he’s far more sophisticated than I am. The male counterpart to the glamorous flappers I’ve seen attending some of our shows. I look down at my beautiful dress and the costume jewelry Mother slipped on my wrist and thrill at the thought that I could be mistaken for a flapper myself.

“You look stunning,” Owen tells me, shifting a bit closer.

“Thank you.” I smile and look down at my hands. Then, not knowing what else to say, I pretend to be interested in Mother and Jacques’s lively discussion about people I don’t know. My mother is quickly becoming a New Yorker, which gives me hope that we’ll stay on here, in spite of Harry Houdini’s witch hunts.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Owen says, leaning closer.

My heart speeds up at his nearness. He smells like pomade, gin, and something sweet that I can’t quite identify. “Only a penny?”

“Depends on the thoughts, doesn’t it?” he whispers softly, and I catch my breath. Then the car makes a sharp turn and he’s suddenly in my lap, his hat tumbling to the floor.

I yelp and throw my hands in the air. He pops back up, his face mortified.

“I really must stop making such a fool of myself in front of you,” he says, clapping his hat back on his head. “It’s not at all good for my ego.”

I laugh, envious of Owen’s unassailable confidence. He moves through the world with such ease. I wish I could be more like that.

“I bet you have many interesting thoughts,” he says, going right back to our conversation.

“I’m actually thinking about how nice it would be to stay in New York permanently.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to see Europe? You’re a talented magician; you could do a world tour. I love New York, but I’d kill to be able to travel from city to city, performing.”

“Really? I thought you worked at a bank.”

“I do. But I dabble in magic a bit too.” He glances down at his hands, trying and failing to look modest.

My eyebrows shoot up. “I didn’t know that.” I knew he enjoyed magic, but I didn’t know he practiced it.

“I started when I was in school. I’m not nearly as talented as you or your father, though.”

Thankfully, we reach our destination before I have to reply.

The Colony is the place sophisticated New Yorkers go to see and be seen, Owen informs me, and I can see why. The wildly striped walls catch my attention immediately, but it’s the glittering chandeliers and well-dressed patrons that hold it. The head waiter seems to know Jacques, and we’re led to a table near the center of the room. A tall man with curly hair and a black silk suit walks up to our table soon after we’re seated and introduces himself as Cornelius Vanderbilt. His eyes rove over my mother in spite of the presence of a pretty, if mousy, blonde hovering nearby.

“My wife and I attended your opening night,” he says. “You and your daughter have a wonderful act.”

Mother inclines her head and gives a brilliant smile that leaves both Jacques and Mr. Vanderbilt blinking. “Thank you so much, Mr. Vanderbilt.”

“Please, call me Cornelius. And this is my wife, Rachel.”

His wife gives a tight smile. “Nice to meet you. Really, darling, we must get back to the Goulds.”

Little sparks of jealousy come off her like darts when she gives my hand a reluctant shake. I’m relieved when Cornelius casts my mother one last, lingering look before leaving with his possessive wife.

Owen leans toward me. “The Vanderbilts are filthy rich. I heard they had a five-hundred-pound cake for their wedding reception.”

I try to envision what that might look like but can’t. “I want to see the oven that could bake a five-hundred-pound cake,” I whisper back.

Owen laughs and I relax. Jacques orders us four Colony Specials.

“What are those?” I ask, and Owen leans in close.

“Gin drinks. They’re pretty good if the hooch isn’t too bad.”

I look around and notice that almost everyone is holding a cocktail. “How do they get away with it at such a high-profile restaurant?”

“Marco Hattem is the bartender here. He keeps all the booze in a freight elevator in the back. If the feds pay a call, he sends it all up to the top floor of the building.”

I laugh, picturing a wily bartender pushing the up button whenever trouble threatened.

“Plus, how many feds do you think have the guts to make a raid on a restaurant that regularly serves Vanderbilts, Goulds, and Carnegies?” Owen waggles his eyebrows at me and I grin.

The waiter delivers our drinks and we all take a careful sip. It’s strong with a hint of anise and orange. “It’s good,” I say with some surprise.

“Let’s drink to a superior shipment!” Owen raises his glass and Mother, Jacques, and I join him in a toast.

“I’ve never been able to resist a celebration!” Cynthia Gaylord trills from behind us. “What are we celebrating?”

“Success,” Jacques puts in quickly, raising a glass to my mother. She tilts her head slightly and smiles in response, pleased with his answer.

The Gaylords grab chairs and squeeze in at the table while the waiter brings another round. Cynthia is at her glittering, giggling best as she, Jacques, and my mother gossip. You would never know of my mother’s contempt for her. Her husband looks on indulgently.

Couples, glamorous in their evening finery, stop by the table to meet my mother. Word of mouth is making her a new sensation in the city. It feels strange after being run out of so many towns by the law and angry citizens. She accepts the homage as if it were her due, inclining her head and bestowing dazzling smiles. The rest of us just bask in her glow as we stuff ourselves on oysters, caviar, and blue cheese, along with rounds of The Colony’s famous toast.

All the while, Owen continues whispering gossip in my ear, some true and some so outrageous that I know he must be making it up to entertain me. It works.

“There’s Lois Long,” he says, indicating a gorgeous and daringly dressed brunette. “She writes scandalous columns for
The New Yorker
under the pseudonym Lipstick. It’s said she spends her nights drinking and dancing with New York’s finest before weaving her way to the offices at four in the morning. She writes an entire gossip column about the people she just spent the night with and then passes out at her desk.”

I stare wide-eyed, imagining a life like that. She’s surrounded by a sparkling clique, hanging on to her every word. Then I notice a well-dressed gentleman standing on the edge of the crowd, part of the group but separate. “Who’s that man, the one who doesn’t look like he’s having a good time?”

“That’s Vincent Astor. He inherited millions when his father went down on the
Titanic
.”

Titanic
. The word echoes in my mind, evoking the memory of my first vision—even though I was so little at the time, I didn’t know that’s what it was. I’d been walking through a late-spring snow with my mother, looking for a cheap boardinghouse. Fortune had frowned on us in Denver and my worn shoes were soaked through. When the first pain erupted behind my eyes, I stopped, clutching my hands to my head. My mother, oblivious, walked on for a moment before noticing. Though she asked me repeatedly what was wrong, I couldn’t answer, petrified by the images playing out in my mind. A broken ship. People running, screaming, drowning in the dark, icy water. Just before blacking out, I remember the overpowering scent of burned sugar. Though that moment was terrifying, it was nothing compared to the horror I felt when I first saw the newspaper headlines bringing my vision to life.

“Are you all right, sweetheart?”

I jump as Cynthia, on my right, lays her hand on my arm. Through her fingers I feel snippets of concern laced with a giddy, uncomplicated happiness. Though the emotion warms me, my heart gives a wistful little tug. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt that carefree.