Diva (18 page)

“Whether Parker gives you permission or not, that shouldn’t stop you from threatening Deirdre that you’ll expose her.”

They both heard a man clear his throat and whipped around in their seats toward the aisle. A gray-haired man in a white priest’s robe stood next to them with his arms crossed. “I must ask you to keep your voices down. This is a place of worship.”

“Hey, it’s not
your
church,” Lorraine snapped. Couldn’t he see that they were in the middle of an important conversation?

Clara popped out of her seat and grabbed Lorraine’s arm. “We’re very sorry. We’ll finish our conversation somewhere else.” She paused. “This church is really beautiful.”

The priest patted Clara’s shoulder. “You’ll have to come back sometime, really take everything in. And be a bit quieter about it, if you don’t mind.”

Lorraine stared at Clara’s sheepish, genuine smile. She had thought that everything about Clara’s country bumpkin act had been exactly that—an act. But she was beginning to see that at least some part of it had been the real girl peeking out.

Which made Lorraine appreciate Clara even more. She wasn’t just the kind of girl who looked good in a designer gown. Clara could also appreciate the quiet brilliance of a nearly empty church on an early Monday evening.

“Yeah, I guess this place isn’t so bad,” Lorraine commented as they left. “Though I think they’d really benefit if they put in a bar in the back. Think how many seats they’d fill if you could get a martini with your prayer!”

JEROME

Jerome didn’t know a thing about croquet.

And yet he was pretty sure he could still play it better than Forrest and his guests.

The group was gathered on the wide lawn in front of Forrest’s extravagant villa. Wickets were set up around the yard, and cushioned lawn chairs were laid out in a row. Forrest stood in front of the red ball with his mallet.

“Let’s see if Forrest can aim for the right wicket this time,” a blonde sitting on one of the chairs called from under her large hat. Jerome was pretty sure her name was Glitter or Sparkle or some other such nonsense.

“I doubt it,” a darker blonde said from her seat next to the other one. “His aim has never been very good. Have you seen
how many times he’s tried to hit Marty’s balls out of the way? But you’re here to stay, aren’t you, Marty?”

Overweight, sunburned Marty was dressed for the game in white shorts and a white-and-red plaid sweater. He ignored the two girls completely and leaned on his mallet, the bulge of his stomach hanging out over his shorts. Marty’s wife, Ruby Hayworth, wore a simple ivory day dress. The actress was a dead ringer for Clara Bow, only with dark brown hair rather than red.

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Glitz, Glamour, lay off and let Forrest concentrate.”

She gave Forrest a warm smile and the playboy looked practically thunderstruck. She’d already bagged herself a rich husband—and now it looked like she had Forrest wrapped around her finger as well. Jerome wondered how Ruby managed to stay the center of attention with a firecracker like Gloria around. Sure, Ruby had charisma, but that was a given. You couldn’t get far in show business without it.

Gloria had more charisma in her little toe than ten Ruby Hayworths. She was the last match in a matchbook—the one that managed to spark while the others lay dull and useless on the ground.

Gloria—his Gloria.

Today she was wearing a sleeveless lavender blouse and a pale gray skirt with a matching gray cloche. When Forrest managed to hit his ball through the correct wicket for the
first time since they’d started playing, Gloria burst into delighted, musical laughter. “I knew you had it in you,” she said to him.

“I’m actually a decent player on my good days,” Forrest replied. “But how can I keep my mind on the game with so many lovely distractions so close by?” He winked at Gloria, and from fifteen feet away Jerome could see her blush. What was that—was Forrest flirting with Gloria?

Jerome brushed the idea out of his mind. Last night Gloria had told him how supportive Forrest was of their relationship—more than any white man she’d ever met. Forrest was a friend.

Well, sort of.

“Waiter?” Glitz called, and almost startled him into dropping the tray of gin and tonics in his hand. “I think I could use another.”

“But your glass is still full!” Glamour remarked.

“Mmm, but my other hand is empty and not doing anything special. Why waste it when it could be doing something useful like holding my next drink?”

Waiter
. The word pained him. Glitz took a drink from Jerome’s tray without saying thank you or even acknowledging his existence. Jerome walked back to his post beside the row of lawn chairs. He stood with his tray held high and a towel over his arm: just another piece of furniture.

He used to be a musician. What had happened to him?

Jerome looked back to the croquet game. Apparently
Forrest had convinced Gloria that he was a good enough player to teach her how to shoot. She bent over the ball with her mallet, laughing, while Forrest laid his hands on her arm and shoulder.

Too close for comfort.

Then Forrest called to Jerome over his shoulder. “Waiter! I think this game is getting a little too sober for anyone’s liking.”

Jerome took a deep breath and marched over to the two teams on the lawn. Forrest took drinks for himself and Gloria. He leaned in close and clinked his glass against Gloria’s. “To mopping the floor with these two,” he said, his lips close to Gloria’s ear. Gloria’s face was bright red now.

Jerome trusted Gloria, and Gloria had said that Forrest only saw her as a pal. So what the hell was Forrest playing at, pawing at Gloria like this? Jerome clenched his fists and told himself to calm down. Hank had worked hard to get him here—he couldn’t risk blowing his cover. Thankfully, even if Forrest approved of him theoretically, the man had no idea what Jerome looked like—so Jerome was able to be at his estate without raising any suspicion.

Yet.

Before last night, Jerome hadn’t spoken to Gloria in weeks—even though he’d been so worried about her. He’d seen in the papers that she’d been released from prison and hated that he couldn’t go straight to her. But Hank had said he couldn’t. So Jerome just had to wait and hope that Gloria
was thinking of him even a fraction as much as he was thinking of and longing for her.

Then last night had been such a blur of pure joy and relief. The waves of her autumn-fire hair, those brilliant, pale eyes that held more intelligence and strength than Jerome had ever thought a silver-spoon dame like her could possess. God, he’d missed her.

The sun was already rising outside Gloria’s window by the time they got to talking. Jerome lay on Gloria’s enormous bed with her head on his chest, her soft, beautiful hair tickling his nose. He’d been ready to fall asleep in the heaven he’d found in Gloria’s arms, but she’d pulled away and looked up at him with a mix of elation and concern on her face.

“I’m so happy to see you, Jerome. But what are you doing here?” she asked. “I’m working to get us both out of trouble. Hank said—”

Jerome had put two of his fingers to her lips. “Hank’s the one who sent me here.”

He told Gloria how her father had left him in Middle of Nowhere, New Jersey. She gripped the silk comforter hard as Jerome told the story. At one point she interrupted him. “Can you please stop calling that man my father?” A tear ran down her cheek, but her expression remained fierce. “He lost his right to being called that a long time ago.”

Jerome looked at his fiancée for a moment, lost in sadness and admiration for her. Jerome’s own father had never understood him, had done everything he could to tear Jerome away
from music. He and Gloria had this in common. “Well, anyway, I woke up on a tiny cot in a ramshackle house. A real sweet old couple, the Walkers, had found me lying on the side of the road not long after I passed out.”

“Thank God,” Gloria said.

“They insisted I stay with them for a few days to get my strength back up, then they directed me to the nearest pay phone in Hoboken. From there I called Hank, and he promised to help me out with Lowell if I helped you with Forrest.” Jerome looked away, unsure how Gloria would react to this next part. “It took Hank a little bit of time, but soon he was able to get an investigation into your father’s business dealings going. Now … well, Lowell doesn’t have any time to worry about who you’re planning to marry.”

Gloria smiled in relief. “Good. One less problem for us.”

“So Hank set me up at a hotel in New York on the bureau’s dime and worked to plant me here as a servant. Hank appreciates that it’s probably been hard for you to get a chance to go through Forrest’s things, being his guest—a servant would have a lot more access. He said I couldn’t contact you. Otherwise, sweetheart, you know I would have.”

She nodded. “I know. I’m just happy you’re safe. And Hank’s right—I could use your help.” Gloria told him about Forrest’s inheritance from his late father. “So you see, he’s not a criminal at all. Hank probably just got bored with gin busts and decided to target Forrest. But Hank will never believe me without proof. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to
search Forrest’s room so I can find his father’s will and we can leave the past where it belongs: in the past. And move on with our lives.”

Jerome peered at Gloria, skeptical. “What makes you think Forrest is telling the truth?”

“I know this mansion and the company he keeps might make you think differently, but Forrest really is a decent man,” Gloria said. “You’ll see.”

Jerome couldn’t bring himself to dash the hope in Gloria’s eyes. “All right. The first chance I get, I’ll search his room and find that will. Then we’ll get out of here and it’ll be just you and me.”

When Gloria fell asleep, he sneaked back to the servants’ quarters happier than he’d been in weeks.

But now the joy drained from him as he watched Forrest manhandle Gloria. Forrest’s hand had been on Gloria’s waist for what felt like hours. It was too much for Jerome to take, no matter how
decent
Gloria insisted Forrest was.

Jerome abruptly twisted the hand holding the silver tray so that all five remaining gin and tonics splashed all over Forrest’s navy-blue pin-striped jacket. Gloria squealed in surprise and Forrest jumped away from her.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Jerome said half a second too late.

There was a tense, sickly pause in the air as Forrest pulled a white handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, wiping his hands with it. Then he did the impossible: He laughed.

“Ah, that was refreshing,” he remarked. “I think a gin
shower was exactly what I needed to up my game.” He glanced at Jerome without really looking at him. “Thank you, good sir.” He took off his jacket, folded it over, and handed it to Jerome. “I’m afraid I’ll need a new one of these, though.”

Damn. Maybe Gloria was right after all. “You’re not angry?” Jerome asked.

Forrest waved him off. “If even half the drinks that get poured around here survive, I count myself a lucky man. There’s a similar jacket on the far right side of my closet.” He pulled a heavy silver key ring out of his pocket, pulled a brass key free from the rest, and handed the key to Jerome. “I keep my bedroom locked, old boy.”

Jerome looked behind Forrest at Gloria, who eyed the keys in Jerome’s hand and looked as though she was trying to suppress a delighted laugh. Gloria probably thought Jerome had orchestrated this whole thing so he’d be able to get into Forrest’s room.

“Of course,” Jerome said to Forrest, “I’ll be right back with that for you, sir.”

Five minutes later, Jerome stood in the middle of what was easily the finest bedroom he’d ever seen.

The walls were paneled in soft mahogany, and a few tastefully abstract paintings hung in gilded frames. A four-poster bed sat in the middle of the room, and a few framed photos on the dresser and the desk by the window displayed Forrest next to gorgeous Follies dancers or famous actors.

Jerome crossed to the closet. It was full of fine silk shirts of
every color and enough suits to clothe an army of gentlemen. Jerome removed the navy-blue coat Forrest had mentioned and hung it on the back of the desk chair. Then he moved to the desk and began shuffling through Forrest’s mail. He didn’t really know where Forrest would keep a copy of his father’s will—he was a musician, not a detective. But he did have an advantage in this investigation that Gloria didn’t: invisibility.

When Hank had first mentioned the possibility of Jerome’s working as a servant in Forrest’s home, Jerome had never thought it would work.

“We’ve paid off Forrest’s head housekeeper. She hires all his help for him,” Hank had explained. “You’ll show up with a few other new servants, and it’ll be your job to do your best to blend in. With any luck, Forrest won’t even notice you’re there.”

“But won’t he recognize me? My face has been plastered in at least half as many magazines as Gloria’s since everything that went down at the Opera House,” Jerome pointed out.

Hank had given him a pitying smile. “Jerome, you’re black. Put you in serving clothes and you’ll be practically invisible to wealthy white folks like Forrest and his crowd. Forrest is the sort of man who, if he did read any of those
Manhattanite
articles, never would’ve looked past the pretty girl on your arm in the photos. A guy like you? You’ve only ever been an invisible man to him.”