Diva (30 page)

“I think
you and I
have some catching up to do,” he whispered to her.

Without paying any attention to the hundreds of eyes fixed on them, Marcus wound his arms around Clara’s waist and pulled her close. He leaned his forehead against hers. “No
more lies, okay? I think I’ve had enough of those for one lifetime.”

Clara nodded and tentatively placed one hand on the lapel of his tuxedo. “Did you mean what you said to Deirdre? That you still … love me?”

Marcus gave her a sheepish grin. “I’ve always loved you, Clara. And I always will. Now and forever.”

Clara felt everything inside go warm. She hadn’t lost Marcus. Somehow, he’d come back to her—and she was very much aware that this was a second chance most people never got. She wasn’t about to screw it up.

“Then kiss me, you fool,” she whispered.

Marcus didn’t hesitate. He took her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. Clara’s entire body sighed: Kissing Marcus felt like coming home again. Yet Clara felt she was also traveling somewhere new and wondrous. She hadn’t been sure Marcus would stay interested in her forever, once he got to know the real her. But now she realized he had always known the real Clara, far better than Clara herself did.

When Marcus pulled away, the crowd erupted into applause. Marcus’s parents, much to Clara’s relief, were clapping, too. Lorraine looked the most gleeful of all. Clara thought of the way Gloria had smiled at Lorraine before she left. Could there be hope for those two, after everything?

Marcus took Clara’s hand, sending pleasant shocks up her arm. “This will sound absurd,” he announced to everyone, “but since we have already paid for a party, I’d like for us to
have a party. There is food and dancing in the Palm Court, and an incredible band. So please stay and enjoy the near death of my bachelorhood.”

The crowd laughed and a few of Marcus’s college pals stood, ready to kick off the party downstairs.

“It was a close call, friends. I almost married the wrong girl. But now I’ve got the right one back and I’m never letting go. And if that isn’t a reason to celebrate”—Marcus met Clara’s eyes and grinned—“I don’t know what is.”

LORRAINE

Rescuing Marcus had been a lot more glamorous in Lorraine’s imagination.

When she’d pictured saving him from Deirdre—and she
had
pictured it—she’d imagined hundreds of flashbulbs igniting in her direction, reporters asking, “Lorraine, how can one woman be both so beautiful
and
intelligent?”

All the Barnard girls would cry how they’d been wrong, and wasn’t Lorraine the zebra’s spots, and she would instantly be invited to every collegiate party for the next four years, and she and all of her new best friends would sip gin fizzes and remark at how many boys there were for them to choose from, and Lorraine would say things like “My oh my, I can’t pick just one—that’s why I’m dating five!” And all of her new friends would laugh and laugh and laugh, and
she would graduate summa cum laude and marry someone tall, dark, and handsome and somehow, some way, befriend Gloria Carmody again and they’d dance together at Marcus and Clara’s wedding.

But fantasy was much more engaging than reality.

And here she was, minus the flashing lights and newfound friends, alone with Melvin while everyone else raced to follow the Golden Couple to the reception—even though there wasn’t a wedding, who’d turn down a free party?

All anyone could talk about was Deirdre, Marcus, and Clara.

No one even mentioned Lorraine.

“Oh, that was so romantic!” Ginnie Worthington exclaimed, clinging to her pudgy husband’s arm. Her pale blue frock looked like it was wilting under the candlelight. “Why don’t you ever do anything romantic anymore, Wally?”

Wally raised his eyebrows. “You want me to leave you for a con woman so I can come back? Let’s just get some wedding cake so we can go home.”

Lorraine sighed—sure, she’d love a piece of cake. But it didn’t exactly go with fitting into her dress. No, water would have to do. Well … and a teensy bit of vodka.

“You feeling peachy, Raine?”

She whipped her head at the sound of Melvin’s familiar voice. He’d put his glasses back on—thank God—and was turning his white handkerchief gray trying to wipe the drawn-on mustache off his face. But without a mirror he was
really just smearing dark smudges all over the lower half of his face.

Lorraine reached over and took the handkerchief. “Let me do that. You look like some kind of deranged chimney sweep.”

Melvin smiled and let her scrub his face. “But a chimney sweep who dresses
very
well for work.”

She laughed, continuing until his face was as clean as it was going to get without soap and water. She handed the cloth back to him, and there was a slight spark when they touched. Lorraine felt something rush through her—was it just static energy, or something else? “Listen, Melvin … you did a good job earlier. Really great. You were a very believable Southerner. Nice improvisation with all the finger raising!”

“Think so?”

“I do.” She reached up to push his hat back on his head a little so that his flaming red hair waved over his forehead. He needed to wear newsboy caps more—the hat gave him a real scholarly-yet-dangerous look. “And I love that hat on you!”

Melvin ducked his head and gave her a bashful smile. “I know I told you not to get me wrapped up in any of your schemes after the incident at the bridal shop, but this one was pretty … copacetic. Definitely a change of pace from all that reading at Columbia.”

“And how!” Lorraine said. “It’s ducky to get up to some mischief on your own once in a while! The characters in books shouldn’t have all the fun, right?”

“Right. And we were able to help Marcus avoid a terrible fate. Which means we both deserve some overpriced finger food and at least one dance, wouldn’t you say?”

Lorraine took Melvin’s arm and they moved through the nearly empty ballroom down the stairs to the Palm Court. Most of the crowd was already seated at tables beneath the domed glass ceiling; a group of black men dressed in white suits sat on a raised platform at the far end of the room, playing some springy jazz music. A few couples were dancing in the space between the stage and tables.

Clara and Marcus sat at one of the tables, guests on either side of them trying to get their attention. But they only had eyes for each other—and surprisingly, Lorraine wasn’t jealous at all.

She leaned against one of the enormous marble pillars by the court’s expansive archway. “Those two look so happy.”

“Yeah,” Melvin replied. “Isn’t it nice knowing you helped that happen?”

Lorraine crossed her arms and pouted. “But no one else knows! All anyone can talk about is Clara. It’s like I wasn’t even there.” The dreams of all the Barnard girls hearing about her amazing detective work and wanting to befriend her, or the Columbia boys wanting to date her, suddenly seemed so far out of reach.

“That’s how it should be! Sometimes you do something because it’s the right thing to do, not because you’re going to get the glory.”

Lorraine let his words sink in. “I guess you’re right.” She glanced at Melvin out of the corner of her eye. He was a genuinely
nice
boy. So different from Marcus, who had never seen her as anything more than a floozy, or Hank, who had lied to her and used her for his own personal gain. Melvin was here because he wanted to be. It was a good thing, too. If she was going to keep working on this whole being-a-decent-person-without-an-ulterior-motive thing, she was going to need a teacher.

Melvin took a deep breath and moved to stand in front of her. “Besides,” he went on, “we got to know each other much better because of this. And I have to say, Raine, you’re quite the kitten’s pajamas.”

“Really?” Melvin
had
always been willing to do everything for her. But he’d said himself that he only did that because he was her friend. There had been that moment at Forrest’s party when he’d held her … And then after the bridal shop debacle, he had said that he had a crush on someone. Someone he didn’t think felt the same way about him. Had he been talking about …

She felt her mouth stretch into an enormous smile. “You really think so?”

Melvin took a step closer to her, whipped off his glasses, and wrapped his arms around her. Lorraine barely had time to process what he was doing before he pulled her close and kissed her—hard.

There was passion, there was heat. Melvin kissed like
Lorraine imagined men did in the movies—the kind of kiss that really
meant
something. She felt a thrilling tingle shoot from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. Her arms moved as if they had a mind of their own, winding around Melvin’s neck, her fingers getting lost in his impossibly soft hair.

Who could’ve guessed that brainy Melvin was such a good kisser?

And Melvin was a boy who really, truly liked her. Despite her laundry list of flaws.

Maybe even
because
of them.

Lorraine pulled away and looked at Melvin—it was almost as if he were an entirely different person now. He wasn’t the man she’d always imagined, but he was the man she needed. She gave him a wide smile, which he returned. Unfortunately the smile looked a little creepy with those tiny eyes twinkling down at her.

“Oh, Melvin. The smooching was great and all, but you really need to put your glasses back on.”

He chuckled and did as she’d said. And instantly he was handsome again—those frames were magic! Lorraine couldn’t believe she’d never noticed how attractive he was before, like a sexy professor, or maybe a writer. Handsome in an understated,
intellectual
way.

“Better?”

Lorraine grabbed his lapels and pulled him closer. “Much.”

But just as Melvin leaned in for another round of necking, there was the unmistakable crack of a gunshot.

Lorraine trembled, shocked. Who had a gun—and where was the shooter? Melvin instantly stood in front of Lorraine to protect her—he really
was
one of the good ones—and she peeked over his shoulder. A bald man in a tuxedo stood in the archway and held a stunning young brunette at gunpoint. Several guests were cowering under tables and looking around frantically for another exit. Lorraine didn’t recognize the man with the gun. A jagged scar ran across his nose.

She gasped when she studied the brunette in the purple dress more closely. Was that Ruby Hayworth?

“I want all the cops to clear out. Then I’ll let this lady go,” the thug bellowed.

Two men burst through the doorway behind the man, then approached him and Ruby slowly. Lorraine recognized one of them as Forrest Hamilton—rich, dark, and handsome. How was it that he wasn’t married?

Lorraine’s eyes widened at the other man. What was
Hank
doing here? Though she’d preferred the casual vests and trousers he’d worn as a bartender, his pressed black suit didn’t look
too
bad. Men dressed just like Hank followed him.

Hank and Forrest both held up their hands. “Violence won’t get you out of this jam, Callum. How about you just let the girl go and save yourself the murder charge?”

But the hard-boiled character—Callum—turned to Forrest. “You were going to hand me over to the bulls just so you could run away with this floozy!” He tightened his bulky
arm around Ruby’s neck, pressing the gun harder into her temple. “That is not how a son honors his father.”

Ruby blinked, and mascara-blackened tears dribbled onto her cheeks.

Lorraine heard glasses and silverware clatter to the ground as guests stood from their tables or ducked for cover. Men and women both cried out for help, and many pressed up against the back wall of the court, as far from Callum and his gun as they could get. There was a jumble of people by the stairwell, which was clogged with people trying to get away. The room filled with tense whispers.

“First the bride’s a con woman and now someone’s holding a guest at gunpoint?” a woman in a red dress complained to her husband under a nearby table. “I
told
you I didn’t like your friends.”

The rest of the crowd stood and watched, as motionless as Lorraine and Melvin. Lorraine could hardly believe this Callum was Forrest Hamilton’s father. All the good genes must’ve come from his mother.

“You’re right,” Forrest said. His voice was shaky and he seemed much more like a boy than a man. “But don’t blame her—blame me. Hold me hostage instead of her!”

“You’re not worth anything,” Callum spat. “They’ll just shoot the both of us.”

Callum gestured to Hank with the gun for a split second—but that was all Forrest needed to attack.

Suddenly he was in the air, soaring into his father. Ruby
cried out and ducked to the ground with her hands over her head, out of Callum’s hold and out of Forrest’s way.

Forrest pummeled into the older man’s chest with such force that Callum toppled over, hitting the floor with a sickening smack.

The pistol fell to the floor.

Forrest reached for it, his limbs tangled with his father’s. Ruby jumped up and tried to help Forrest, grabbing Callum’s coat and attempting to yank him away.