The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) (26 page)

“STASS? YOU OUT
here? Stass?”

Gaige’s singsong voice was an instant buzzkill.

Charles and I darted apart like two teenagers caught necking in the backseat of a car at some scenic spot called Lover’s Lane or Lookout Point. Charles’s fingers were still intertwined with my necklace, linking us together in our embarrassment. He hurriedly yanked his hand free, along with several strands of my hair, and then stood to put even more distance between us. I smoothed my dress into place, before following suit.

Heart still pounding, I called to my partner in a surprisingly even tone. “Back here, Gaige. In the garden.”

Footsteps echoing in the still night, as my partner rounded the house. I caught sight of Gaige immediately, the worry lines creasing his brow evident in the soft light from one of the electric lamps. The moment his gaze landed on my companion and me, his concern evaporated.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Gaige’s smirk showed enough enamel to see he no longer had his wisdom teeth. My partner crossed his arms over his chest, and stared back and forth between Charles and me.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Prince. Beautiful night, isn’t it?” Charles replied. He appeared to be the picture of calm, using manners to mask any discomfort he might have been experiencing. Only a slight twitch on the side of his neck belied his tone.

“You’re gallivanting around in the dark with my sister, Gaige will do,” my partner replied, taking the hand that Charles extended for a gentlemanly shake.

Pebbles crunched beneath the soles of Charles’s shoes as he shifted from one foot to the other. Gaige’s habit of reveling in awkward situations was clearly not something Charles was accustomed to, and it was making my new friend anxious.

Gaige’s gaze lingered on Charles for several beats, purposefully assessing him from head to toe. When my partner turned his attention back to me, his eyebrows had crawled halfway up his forehead, as if to ask,
“This guy? Really?”

“You were looking for me?” I asked.

“Right. Time to go.”

“Go? Is the party over?” I asked, glancing around for a clock as though one of the trees might have a face and hands.

“Yes, dear sister. While you were receiving lessons on the local birds and bees with Mr. DuPree, the earth did continue to rotate. So much so, in fact, that the night’s festivities are at a close.”

“Then, if you will both excuse me,” I said demurely. “I simply must thank our hostesses for such a wonderful evening.”

Raucous laughter greeted me in the courtyard at the front of Stein’s house. Partygoers had trickled out onto the steps and into the gardens, glasses brimming with champagne and wine in their hands. Several guests had decided to cut out the middleman and were drinking straight from bottles of assorted alcohol.

“Stassi, darling! There you are!” Hadley’s voice rang out above the din of boisterous conversations and laughter. She was on the arm of her husband—my first up-close look at Mr. Ernest Hemingway. Though he would go entirely gray later in life, his hair was still inky black in 1925, and ruffled as though he’d been running his hands through it all night.

“Ah, the infamous Miss Prince,” Ernest called, his voice a monotone that nevertheless commanded attention. “I had the pleasure of going a few rounds with your brother earlier today, he is quite brave.”

“He’s something alright,” I replied with a smile, walking over to join the couple in the middle of the courtyard.

Stein’s other guests flowed past us to the short line of cars waiting on the street. A particularly rowdy bunch made for a gorgeous convertible with the top down at the front of the line that didn’t seem nearly large enough for their numbers.

“I’m a fan, Mr. Hemingway, it is such an honor to meet you,” I said, refocusing my attention on Hadley and her husband.

And it true was—his was a rare gift. It was as if he possessed a perspective on human nature that few could see, and he conveyed his observations in a precise but illustrative fashion that was timeless. I couldn’t fathom having that sort of talent.

“Good, come have a drink with us and you can tell me all about my genius,” Ernest declared. Though the remark would’ve seemed joking from anyone else, his staid expression and my knowledge of his character told me that he was utterly serious.

“Oh yes, you simply must join us!” Hadley cried. “I was such a boar earlier, you must forgive my rudeness. We will be fast friends, you and I. I just know it. Come have a drink with us, say yes.”

More than to offer an apology, I got the distinct impression it was a desire for companionship that drove Hadley to extend the invitation. Still, I couldn’t help but laugh at her earnestness.

The lampposts gave off enough light for me to see that Hadley’s eyes were a little too bright, her cheeks a little too flushed, and the grip she had on her husband’s arm a little too tight. In fact, Ernest was all that was keeping her upright.

Champagne sloshed over the rim of the glass dangling from her free hand. As if the sudden wetness on her skin reminded Hadley that there was still alcohol to drink, she lifted the glass to her lips and drained the contents.

“I wish I could,” I replied. Hadley’s expression immediately turned to pouty disappointment. “Gaige and I must get home. Our uncle arrived last night, and we promised him a nightcap.”

“Oh come now, just one drink?” Hadley pressed. Then, as quickly as her mood had dipped, it swung back up and her expression brightened. “Or you can ring him and he can meet us!”

“Splendid idea,” Ernest declared. “We need more menfolk. Your uncle, you say? Is he a military man? I would love to trade war stories with another brave soldier.”

“I’m sorry, we really can’t tonight,” I apologized, legitimately regretful. Not just because the outing would be advantageous for the mission, but also because I genuinely wanted to hang out with these characters. “Perhaps we could get together another day this week?”

“Yes, of course, we will have lunch. Ring me tomorrow and let me know when you’re available,” Hadley replied, her disappointment forgotten.

“I will,” I promised.

A horn honked, followed by a man waving a champagne bottle and calling to Hadley and Ernest from the overstuffed convertible.

“It seems we are being summoned,” Hemingway declared.

The three of us said a quick goodbye, and then the couple trotted over to join their friends. All of the seats in the back were already taken, with women teetering on men’s laps and clutching anything within reach to keep from falling to the floorboards.

Ernest slid into the front seat beside the driver, while Hadley stumbled over the occupants to perch atop the back of the open-topped car. Someone handed her a bottle of champagne. She attempted to refill her glass, though more alcohol poured down the front of her dress than made it into the cup. A man passing by on the sidewalk nearly became the recipient of a bubbly shower when Hadley raised the bottle in toast to me.

“Au revoir, Stassi!” she called, blowing me a kiss as the driver shifted into gear and the car pulled away.

Hadley’s drunken laughter was still audible as I walked inside to say goodbye to Stein and Toklas.

In a weird way, the joie de vivre atmosphere of the 1920s reminded me of a daytrip I’d taken into Nashville with the other work camp girls. Then, just as now, it seemed those who’d lived through the war wanted to celebrate that fact. After so much bloodshed and death, the survivors needed a constant reminder that they were still alive. The parallels made me feel a little less homesick, even though the aftermath of World War Five had never touched Branson.

Inside the foyer, the remaining guests surrounded Stein and Toklas. I stepped to one side to wait discreetly for a break in the conversation. Like bees to honeycomb, a group of women I’d met early in the kitchen swarmed me immediately.

“You positively must join me for dinner,” Maggie said, placing one hand lightly on my forearm to draw my attention.

“We should take you to Madame Chanel’s boutique,” her friend interjected.

“You will be the most fashionable woman in Baltimore, if you return with a trunk full of her designs,” a willowy brunette agreed, her voice heavy with a German accent.

The barrage of offers for dinner and shopping dates was so overwhelming, all I could think to do was smile and nod graciously.

Another woman even invited Gaige and me to join a house party on the Riviera in the coming weeks. Thankfully, that was when Ines swept in out of nowhere and expertly handled the situation. She gave noncommittal answers that in no way promised attendance, but were laced with enough flattery for the asker to believe I’d be delighted to join an uncle’s eighty-second birthday celebration, or visit the guillotine that had claimed Marie Antoinette’s head. In that moment, I was again grateful for our guide and her skillful deflections. Morbid curiosity aside, a blade bathed in more blood than Elizabeth Bathory held little interest for me.

In an unexpected contradiction to our intel about the introverted Andre Rosenthal, the writer stopped at our group on his way out to brush kisses on both my cheeks and hug me goodbye. The embrace was awkward, like one you give an aunt that bathes in mothballs and joint cream, but I still found it touching. The simple gesture brought such guilt that I held on for a few beats longer than socially acceptable. None of my targets in the past were as likeable as Rosenthal, and I felt a shame I’d never before experienced on a run. Using him for profit sat with me about as well as a toddler on a sugar high.

Rosenthal’s exit provided the perfect opportunity for me to make my own goodbyes to the group of women inexplicably interested in becoming my new best friends.

I wasn’t the only person waiting for an audience with Stein and Toklas, though. I darted in front of several other guests—rudeness be damned, I had places to go and shops to burgle—and reached the hostesses just as a slim man in a well-worn sport coat bid them adieu.

“Americans,” I heard someone behind me grumble.

The formidable women were speaking to each other in hushed tones as I approached. I caught Stein rolling her eyes.

“I apologize for interrupting,” I began. “I just wanted to thank you again for inviting my brother and me this evening. It was a privilege to be here.”

“Sorry about old Dopher, he wasn’t too fond of the comments on his novel tonight,” Stein replied, gesturing to the departing man. “I hope we did not keep you.”

“Not at all,” I said with a wave of my hand. “I just didn’t want to leave without expressing my gratitude.”

“We were happy to have you. Do come back next week,” Stein invited. Her wide, welcoming smile was a laughable contrast to Toklas’s scowl. “Your brother is going to bring me a short story to look over. I have to admit, I am quite curious.”

“Me, too,” I replied, stifling a surprised laugh. I couldn’t imagine Gaige as a writer, much less one who warranted the opinions of Gertrude Stein. This was going to be interesting.

Ines broke away from the group and joined me in thanking the hostesses.

“Gertrude, Alice, a pleasure as always,” she told them. To me, she said, “I do believe Jacque is waiting for us with the car. And poor Gaige is in the courtyard, stuck in an utterly tedious conversation with Vincent. He fancies himself a great artist, and seems to believe your brother is the benefactor he has been waiting for.”

We said a final goodbye to Stein and Toklas, and then Ines took my arm and led me outside.

Gaige was indeed in the courtyard, talking excitedly with a group of men who were keenly interested in whatever he was saying. If I had to guess, it looked like an animated, very Gaige-like retelling of his experiences at the Préfecture de police de Paris. Looking as dapper as I’d ever seen him, with one hand tucked into the front pocket of his tailored suit pants and the other waving wildly about, my partner fit right in with the other men of the time.

Gaige waved me over, but I gave him a subtle head shake and smile in response, pointing to where Jacque stood beside our car idling at the curb. After handshakes and lots of back clapping, he caught up with Ines and me just as the driver was opening the backdoor for us.

“That went shockingly well. You were both quite the hits,” Ines remarked, once we were settled into the seats and on our way.