Diva (23 page)

While Clara made her way to Midtown, Lorraine and Melvin began the long walk to the Columbus Circle subway station. Lorraine had already blown enough money on the cab she and Clara had convinced to follow Deirdre’s town car to the dress shop.

They moved past Bloomingdale’s on Fifty-Ninth Street and Lorraine felt a pang at the sight of the enormous store and its windows full of mannequins modeling Patou and Chanel. But she could shop another day. Right now it was time to just be happy she wasn’t in jail.

In the distance she could see Pulitzer Fountain burbling in front of the Plaza Hotel, and the trees of Central Park beside it. She glanced at Melvin. It was kind of nice to spend time with him off campus. He seemed like less of an insufferable brain without that constant tower of books in his arms.

“Hey,” Melvin said as they walked. “That was nice what you said to Clara back there. About Marcus and everything. You used to like him a lot, didn’t you?”

“Yep, I wrote bad poetry and everything.” Lorraine’s cheeks pinked at the fool she’d made of herself over Marcus Eastman in prep school. “I was so far gone over him—I used to crash
his baseball games and ask for his help on math homework I’d already finished just so I’d have an excuse to stare at him.”

She’d wanted so badly for Marcus to feel the same way about her. Lorraine’s face still flushed every time she thought of the one and only time they’d ever kissed. They’d been at the Green Mill with Gloria and Clara, and Marcus was already so clearly beginning to fall for Clara. She’d leaned in to kiss him and he’d pulled away, horrified. She’d had to cover, say that she was drunk and being silly—but really, she’d been as sober as a judge.

The worst part of that memory was how long Lorraine had persisted in the senseless crush
after
it had happened.

And then in New York there’d been Hank. Their whole relationship had been a big fat lie, but Lorraine had walked away from it having learned a big fat truth: It was really, really nice when the boy you liked actually liked you back.

Now she could hardly believe how long she’d chased after Marcus, thinking she could convince him to have feelings for her. Why go to all that trouble when there were boys out there who would like her all on their own? Surely there had to be a few lining the streets of New York. She just had to find them.

She shrugged at Melvin. “But Marcus never liked me that way. I should’ve realized that a long time ago.” How lovely it was to finally admit that, without it feeling like her whole world would come crashing down. “How about you, Melvin, have you ever been in love?”

His cheeks got a little rosy and he gave her a quick glance.
“Well, there is this one girl I sort of like … but I don’t think she likes me the same way.”

“Well, then she’s crazy. You’re a real catch, Melvin.” Just like when she’d said Marcus and Clara belonged together, Lorraine had to say the words to realize that she believed them. Melvin really was a great guy.

“You think so?”

“I do.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, with the park on their right and the hulking skyscrapers of the city on their left. Lorraine watched a few picnickers pack up their blankets as the sun began to set.

“So why do you want to help Marcus?” Melvin asked. “If you’re not trying to get him to like you?”

“It’d just be nice to have him back as a friend. Maybe then some of the Barnard girls would give me the time of day.”

“Ah, so you
do
have an ulterior motive. I should’ve known.”

She glanced over at him, ready to be insulted. But his smile made it clear he was kidding. He really did have such a nice smile—how had she never noticed? “Of course. I’ll leave true selflessness to you—you’re much better at it than I ever could be.” She paused. “Like what you did today. I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”

Lorraine looked at him then—
really
looked at him—walking with his hands plunged into his pockets. He didn’t walk with his chest puffed out like Marcus or Hank, men who knew how charming and attractive they were. But Lorraine
was beginning to find that she
liked
that about Melvin. He didn’t think about how he appeared to anyone else—when he walked he thought about deeper things, like books and art. And Lorraine, maybe. People he cared about.

Melvin was funny, and not in the biting way Marcus had always been. And he was the sort of boy who got better looking the more you got to know him, though it wasn’t as if he were handsome. Still, as long as he kept his glasses on, Melvin’s strong chin, sculpted cheekbones, and full lips were practically swoony. He didn’t have to spend all his time at Lorraine’s beck and call. There were plenty of brainy girls at Barnard who would be happy to give Melvin the attention he deserved.

She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and turned to him. “You do everything for me, and you never complain, and I never do anything for you. Why?”

He glanced down at her with his head cocked to the side. “Why do you think?”

Could it be … did Melvin do all this because he
liked
her? Could Lorraine be the girl he’d been talking about before? But no … he’d just said Lorraine did everything with an ulterior motive. He’d been joking, but would he really joke that way with the girl he carried a torch for?

“I’m your friend,” Melvin explained.

Ah, right. Friends. Of course.

“Now come on,” he said, “you’re gonna help me study for U.S.
and
European History. You owe me.”

Lorraine linked her arm through Melvin’s. “Oh, all right. Can we skip over Queen Victoria, though? She’s such a bore.”

“You’d be surprised. She and Albert actually had a pretty saucy marriage.”

“Really?”
She paused. “Well, I guess that’s not actually so surprising.”

“Why not?”

“Well, in my experience, the people who seem dull at first can turn out to be some of the best people you’ll ever meet.” She peered at his brownish eyes behind his glasses and tightened her arm around his. “Once you get to know them.”

The two of them walked past the last bit of Central Park and a cool wind blew Lorraine’s hair back from her face. She smiled at the leaves of the trees beside them. They were just beginning to change color—a little flash of yellow on one tree, a bit of orange on another. The shift was only just starting, but soon it would be as though the trees had completely new leaves.

And now it looked like Lorraine, too, had new leaves after all.

GLORIA

Gloria was tired.

She’d been ready to fall into bed when the group had gotten back from a drunken scavenger hunt in Great Neck Plaza the night before. But Forrest had decided that it was the perfect time to set up the tightrope he’d just bought in the backyard. Gloria wasn’t sure how no one had broken any bones—though the mattresses the servants dragged outside had helped.

Gloria still hadn’t been able to dig up anything else on Forrest. And to make matters worse, Hank didn’t know where Jerome was. Thank God Ruby had agreed to help them, or Hank probably would’ve sent Gloria back to prison by now. Ruby would bring the information the feds needed to Marcus’s wedding tomorrow. Then, with Hank’s blessing, Ruby
and Forrest would run off to Paris. And Gloria would be free to focus her attention on finding her fiancé.

But for now, she was still stuck here. After three weeks at Forrest’s villa, she’d almost started to think three a.m. beach bonfires and sled rides down the grand staircase were normal. Talking to an old friend helped her remember how absurd Forrest Hamilton’s lifestyle really was.

“What are Forrest and his pack of vamps getting up to now?” Marcus asked over the telephone. “Sparking some fireworks in the living room? Parachuting off the rooftop?”

“I’m not sure even Glitz or Glamour would be dim enough to try to set off fireworks indoors,” Gloria replied. “I should mention the parachute idea to Forrest, though—sounds right up his alley. But no, they’re all playing chess.”

“I don’t believe it. Sounds far too civilized for his crowd.”

“Well, it
is
human-sized chess. Forrest had the tiles out on the terrace painted to look like a chessboard.”

“Ah, there we go. Has anyone chucked a pawn off the terrace yet?”

She sat up from the sofa, looking out at the broad terrace through the wood-paneled den’s ornate French doors. The chessboard took up almost the entirety of the terrace. Larger pieces like the king and queen were more than half as tall as Forrest and his houseguests. Forrest and Glitz controlled the aquamarine pieces, while Marty, Ruby, and Glamour pushed the ivory ones.

Marty was the only one who seemed to be paying the least
bit of attention to the game. Glitz and Glamour were using their respective bishops to have a sword fight of sorts. Ruby twirled her skirt this way and that and sang while a besotted Forrest applauded. Ruby had been singing soft, sweet songs in French all morning.

“No, but it’s only a matter of time,” Gloria replied with a laugh. “I’m sure you’re no stranger to this sort of thing now that you’re an experienced college man.”

“You forget I was nearly engaged by the time school started. I’ve been behaving myself these days, unlike you.”

“Well, I hope you haven’t
completely
reformed. The scoundrel Marcus Eastman is the one who’s been my best friend all these years.”

“I’m still me, don’t worry. I’ve just got my head on a little straighter. And you’re one to talk—I hope I’ll even recognize you at my wedding. You’ve turned into this singing jailbird who cavorts with shady billionaires. Doesn’t sound like the Gloria Carmody
I
used to know.”

Marcus was joking, but Gloria recognized the truth in his words. Would the girl Gloria had been in Chicago, president of the Honor Society and example to all the other debs in town, even recognize the woman Gloria had become?

Gloria didn’t think so. And she was so glad.

When Marcus spoke again, his tone was more serious. “Really, Glo, what are you doing out there? You’re way too good to spend your days as one of Forrest Hamilton’s girl toys. And now he’s coming with you to my wedding?”

“Just as friends,” Gloria corrected quickly. That way Forrest and Ruby would be able to flee the wedding directly and catch their ship to Paris. “You don’t want to know what I’m doing here, believe me.” Gloria peered outside again. She couldn’t see Forrest anymore—he’d probably returned to his own side of the chessboard, which Gloria couldn’t quite see from her vantage point. “It’s complicated,” she told Marcus in a whisper. “I’m working for the FBI, but I can’t really talk about it. Forrest thinks I’m here as a guest, more or less—he doesn’t know that I’m trying to bring him down.” Gloria thought of Ruby. “And I’m very close to getting what I need to satisfy the FBI and have him locked away.”

“I figured it might be something like that, considering you went straight from prison to that fellow’s house.” Marcus’s voice was tinged with worry. “But your detective work better not keep you from your role in my wedding. I can’t get married without my best friend there by my side.”

Gloria felt a rush of affection for her old friend. Maybe she didn’t agree with his getting married so fast, but she did have to admit this was the happiest she’d heard him in a while.

“Don’t worry,” she replied. “They’d have to lock me up again to keep me away.”

They said their goodbyes and Gloria returned the telephone to the mahogany end table. She let her hand rest on the receiver for a moment. In Chicago, Marcus had been such an integral part of her world. Here in New York, he was nothing more than a ghost. And now that he was getting married … 
would he disappear forever? Would their only communication be via Christmas cards and family photos?

Then it hit her: Would she and Jerome even send Christmas cards? What would be the point—who would they send them to? Vera and Evan, maybe, but that was it. She sighed and fingered the chain around her neck—she hadn’t taken it off since Forrest’s party, Hank and his rules be damned. Jerome kept disappearing on her. Wearing the ring around her neck, close to her heart, was the only way Gloria could ease the pain of his absence. Now she would just work on getting him back. It was only September, after all. They could worry about Christmas cards later.

Gloria stood and made for the den’s door.

And she found that she wasn’t alone.

Forrest sat at the other end of the peach velvet sofa, perched on its arm. He must have left the terrace while she’d been on the phone, and entered through the other set of French doors that led to the room beside this one. He held an empty martini glass in each hand and raised one to her in a mock toast.

“One of these was for you,” he said. “But I was so engrossed by your conversation that I drank both without realizing it. Silly me!”

He placed both the glasses on an end table and moved toward her. His dark eyes had none of their usual sparkle—they were nearly black. Gloria had never seen him without a touch of mirth on his face, some joke on the tip of his tongue. But now Forrest’s expression was utterly grim and his face was pallid.