CHAPTER TWO
Tillie adjusted the ribbon wrapped around the waist of her red circle dress before reaching up to run her gloved fingers through the curled ends of her hair. She’d repeated both actions at least a dozen times while she’d been waiting at the stage door. The play had been a pleasant distraction from her determination to make a good impression, and she found herself agreeing with the critics—Oren’s performance as Larry was remarkable.
To think, she would be attending a party on his arm. Though she’d been in love with Oren as a girl, she had no delusions about what this date may or may not lead to. The party was an opportunity for her to spend time with industry professionals and nothing else. She’d heard stories about Oren’s romantic conquests, and she knew she wouldn’t be a good match for man with his experience and expectations. She doubted he saw her like that, anyway. Likely, Oren thought he was doing an old friend a favor in taking his little sister to a fancy Broadway bash.
When the creaky, gated stage door swung open, Oren stepped out wearing a charcoal suit, black tie, shiny wing-tipped shoes, and the narrow-brimmed hat he had on the other day. It was the same outfit everyone wore, but somehow it looked better on Oren. Maybe, it was the way his broad shoulders tapered off into his narrow waist. Or maybe, it was the way his backside filled out the seat of his pants.
“Tillie, doll.” He extended a hand when he noticed her. “I’m so glad you made it.”
She placed her hand in his as he leaned in to brush a feather light kiss on her cheek.
“The play was lovely.”
“Thank you.” He led her to the same black Studebaker sedan she’d ridden to the theatre in. “What was your favorite part?”
“When you sang ‘The Big Black Giant’, of course.”
“Ah, my song in the opening act. Tonight’s performance didn’t quite have the panache of last night’s.”
The driver opened the door to the backseat and gestured for her to get in, and she did.
Her voluminous red skirt spread across the leather seats as she settled. “Well, I liked it.”
Oren sat beside her and the driver shut the door. “That’s a well-educated student of the theatre’s opinion, yes?”
“Of course. As I said yesterday, I have training in piano, ballet—”
Oren cut her off. “Drama and vocal performance.” He tapped a finger to the side of his head. “I remember.”
“Yes, well, I think all of those things would qualify as a judge of good theatre.” When he raised an eyebrow, she added, “Better than the untrained eye, at least.”
Without being told where to go, the driver pulled out onto the street. He’d done the same thing when he’d picked Tillie up, waving her off as she attempted to give him the address for the theatre.
Oren draped an arm over the seat and turned to her. “And when could I see your good training on display? Any upcoming gigs?”
“I’m between gigs right now.” Tillie smiled brightly and hoped he wouldn’t understand her response to mean she hadn’t worked in over a month, which was the truth.
Oren patted her shoulder. “Starting out isn’t easy. If it was, it would be harder to weed out the ones that aren’t made for the business.”
“That’s not me.” She smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt. “I’m meant to be an actress.”
“I’m sure you are.” Oren pulled a cigarette case from the inside of his suit jacket, flipped it open, and offered one to her. She held up a hand—to which Oren’s forehead wrinkled. “You don’t smoke?”
Before she’d left New Jersey, Tillie had practiced with a few of her mother’s cigarettes. Practically everyone smoked, especially in show business, and she worried she might find herself in a situation where it would be expected. Unfortunately, she couldn’t take a puff without coughing.
“A few years back a surgeon wrote an article about how smoking can cause lung cancer.”
“That article was a bunch of baloney.” Oren struck a match to light the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Tobacco companies and doctors said the study was anecdotal.”
A plume of gray smoke filled the backseat as he exhaled, and the scent of burning tobacco met Tillie’s nose.
She batted it away. “I don’t care for the taste either.”
Oren laughed as he rolled down the window a crack and flicked ash outside. “And what will you do when you’re at a rehearsal and the director you’ve been dying to talk to offers you a weed?”
“I’d smoke it, of course.” Tillie chewed her bottom lip. “Or pretend to at least.”
“No, don’t take it.” Oren flicked more ash out the window. “You’ll be the girl who doesn’t smoke. People will remember you for it.”
“That’s good advice.” Tillie relaxed a little, enjoying Oren’s companionship more than she’d hoped to.
The car slowed as it approached the infamous Algonquin Hotel. The twelve-story building was a mecca for painters, writers, and performing artists alike. In the twenties, a group of influential artists—including Dorothy Parker and George S. Kauffman—met for lunch daily in the hotel’s restaurant and called themselves The Vicious Circle. Though they’d since disbanded, Tillie felt the magic of their comradery every time she walked by the stately, old building.
After the door had been opened for them, Oren exited the car then extended his hand to Tillie. She took it and stepped out as well.
“Ever been here before?” Oren asked as he offered her his arm.
“No.” She slipped his arm through his, feeling the warmth emanating from him despite his thick wool jacket. “Are we going to The Blue Bar?”
Oren smiled at her as they passed through the glass doors. “You’ve heard of it, I see.”
“Of course.” She tried to keep up with Oren as they floated through a sea of well-dressed people, but she kept succumbing to her impulse to look around and gawk at all the beautiful things. “I’ve always dreamt of going to a party here.”
Just before they turned into the bar, Tillie noticed Matilda—the Algonquin’s gray-and-white resident feline—sitting beside a dark wood column and looking every bit as elegant as the people stopping to pet her. Tillie smiled at the green-eyed cat, vowing to visit with her before the night was over.
“Here you are, my dear.” Oren swung open the door to the bar before dramatically sweeping his arm before him. “Your future awaits.”
The small room consisted of a dark-wood bar and striking blue-vinyl booths. Slender women dressed in sheath dresses traipsed past men in handsome suits of various grays and blues. The whole smoke-drenched scene was so glamorous and dreamy, Tillie had to pinch her arm to be sure it was truly happening.
“You can go in,” Oren whispered into her ear. She jumped, surprised by his breath tickling her neck. Suddenly, the noise from the party—a combination of conversations, uproarious laughter, and lively music—filled her ears and everything came into focus.
Oren took her hand. “You’re about to thank me.”
“For what?”
Rather than answering, he flashed a cocky, off-kilter smile and led her to the end of the bar.
As they approached, Tillie recognized George Albert—the man behind Me and Juliet and the greatest musical comedy director in the business. She took in a quick breath, understanding what Oren’s plan was.
“Hello, George.” At Oren’s introduction, the man excused himself from the conversation with the others—backstage men Tillie didn’t recognize—and turned around. “I’d like you to meet Tillie Parker.”
George tipped his chin before bringing a glass to his lips. “How are you enjoying the party, Miss Parker?”
“I’m enjoying it very much. In fact, I’m enjoying it almost as much as I enjoyed the performance this evening.” Tillie grinned, pleased with her tenacity.
George lifted his glass, as if in a toast, to Oren. “I like this girl, Cooper.”
“Can you keep an eye on her for me while I get drinks?” He took a step back and dropped a hand on each of her shoulders. Tillie would have considered the gesture possessive, but—after their chat in the car—she was certain Oren saw her merely as a protégé, an up-and-comer from his hometown he could take under his wing. “The bar is packed and I don’t want to lose her in the crowd.”
“I can see why you wouldn’t.” George winked at Tillie, then patted the seat beside him. “Join us, Miss Parker. I’d like to hear more of your thoughts on my play.”
As Oren walked away, Tillie’s body tingled with the same anticipatory energy it always did before she took the stage. She sat beside George, perched on the edge of the blue vinyl bench. Her mother had always told her a lady didn’t let her back touch her chair.
“Mr. Albert, thank you for asking to me to join you.”
“You’ve caught the eye of Oren Cooper, so there must be something special about you.” He pulled a cigarette case from his gray suit jacket and flipped it open. “He’s been shooing women away ever since he arrived in New York, many of my cast members included.”
“We’re old friends.” Tillie fought to keep from glimpsing at Oren. “We ran into each other yesterday, and he invited me tonight. It’s been wonderful catching up.”
“And what do you do, Miss Parker?” His appraising gaze raked over her as he lit a cigarette. “Please tell me you’re an actress. Your look like you were born to be a star.”
“I sing and dance, too.”
He held out his cigarette case to offer her one.
Unable to help herself, Tillie glanced at Oren and smiled. “No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”