BOOKER

Lena’s final fitting was yesterday and the department store just delivered the dresses to my office. As the delivery man walks away, I spot Roger, one of my stage crew, passing by and call out.

He sticks his head in the doorway. “What can I do fer ya, boss?”

Roger is a big, burly fella and I indicate the large, bulky package sitting on my desk. “This just came for Lola. Take it to her dressing room for me, will you?”

“Sure thing.” He swings the awkwardly shaped if not particularly heavy package up to balance atop his beefy shoulder and heads out. Figuring that’s that, I’m displeased to discover I can’t seem to settle down. The numbers on the ledger page in front of me just look like so many squiggles. After a few minutes tick by with no improvement, I head toward Lena’s dressing room as well, berating myself all the way.

I’m losing my edge. Here I had another golden opportunity to present myself to Lena in a positive light. And what did I do instead? Sent Roger to deliver her gowns instead of taking them to her myself! “You’re not exactly genius material, Jameson,” I mutter as I charge down the hall. Maybe I should have attended university after all.

I’m approaching the corner where my hallway T’s with the corridor hosting the dressing rooms when I hear Lena yelling the Brasher girls’ names. Poking my head around the wall, I see her running down the hallway. I grin, both at her enthusiasm and because she runs like a girl, all legs and coltish technique, her arms and hands inefficiently flailing. She is still shouting Clara and Dot’s names in urgent tones as she directs them to “Come on, come on, get out here!”

They do, but probably not in the manner Lena expects. They bolt out into the hallway though their dressing room door. Both women are wild-eyed as they jerkily try to look everywhere at once to get a take on their surroundings.

When they find the passage empty—and threat free, I’d wager—Dot stops dead. Hands on her hips, foot tapping an impatient, rapid tattoo, she hones in on her friend. “What the hell, Lena? We thought the joint was on fire!”

“No, that would be me! One look at me tonight in one of my new gowns and the audience is gonna be running for the fire extinguishers to make sure I don’t go up in flames, I’ll look so hot!”

I can hear the laughter, the pure joy, in her voice. It makes something warm and satisfied expand in my chest, just like it did the night she had drinks with me at my table. Her open joy with me then, simply because I had supported the change in her song she’d been damn right in wanting, had been a treat to see. And there had been something moving about her pure delight with Dot and Clara’s dancing and the band and the proposed poster and—well, bloody near everything, really.

The sisters whoop their delight. Deciding to take that as my cue to cut my losses before I’m caught eavesdropping, I pull my head back behind the wall where the hallways intersect. Feeling more grounded even though I didn’t get to talk to Lena, I head back to my office.

Barely have I traveled more than a couple of steps, however, when I hear Clara say, “Well, let’s go see ‘em. We’ll have to decide which one you wear one tonight when we go out dancing.”

I stop dead. Lena’s going dancing? In one of the dresses I provided? My jaw gets so tight my teeth hurt.

“Oh, I doubt Booker would like me wearing one of the new gowns to another speakeasy! He bought them to enhance his club, after all.”

“That’s my girl,” I murmur under my breath.

“He gave them to you, didn’t he?” Clara demands.

“Well...yeah.”

“Then it seems to me they’re yours to wear wherever you wanna. You said it was in your contract.”

Huh? I retrace my steps to look around the corner again. There wasn’t anything in the contract about—

“Oh, not the wearing them part,” Clara clarifies as if she’d read my mind and makes an erasing gesture with her right hand. “I’m talking about Mr. Jameson providing them in return for you upping the sales here. That pretty much makes it a straight-up barter in my book. Which, in turn, makes them yours to do with whatever you want.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Dot chimes in. “I vote for you wearing something not quite so glam. We’re goin’ to a club that draws a lot of the officers and pilots from the new Naval Air Station at Sand Point. My plan is for me to wow them. Your attention-grabbin’ bubbies can steal my thunder at the best of times.” She pokes Lena’s left breast. “I certainly don’t need them all decked out in a slinky dress on top of it.”

Oh, hell, no! Damned if I’ll allow Lena to surround herself with a bunch of fly boys.

I wince. Because allow might not be the word I want to use—at least not to her face. Pulling back into my own corridor again, I thunk my head against the wall. Slow and measured, once, twice, three times I tap my forehead against it. What else is a fella to do? I sure as hell can’t think of a single good outcome should Lena ever hear me linking that word to her.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” Lena says and I strain to hear, because it sounds as if they’re walking away.

But that doesn’t make sense. Lena’s room is closer to this end of the hallway than the sisters’ is. Then I shrug. For all I know they just decided to lower their voices for privacy. And the bottom line is: I want to hear. Stiff-arming myself away from the wall, I step back to the edge of the intersection again.

“I invited Will to join us,” Lena is saying. “Trust me when I tell you the big palooka is worse than an older brother when it comes to men throwing lines my way. Still, he’ll drive! He said he’ll meet us out front. I’m guessing we’ll go out together, but if for some reason we don’t, look for an old black Ford. And, please. My breasts aren’t that attention grabbing.”

I snort and hear Dot say, “Yeah, they pretty much are. They might not be in fashion, but men just love the bejebers out of bubs like yours.”

Hard to argue with that. I can’t say I’m happy at the thought of other men admiring Lena’s breasts, though. Even if I kind of counted on their appeal when we were arranging her gowns with Alice. But that was for impact from the stage, not up close.

Up close those beauties are off limits.

Just before I hear a door close, I hear and the muted murmur of voices and realize the women must have gone into Lena’s dressing room. I hear a muffled, “Oh, my Gawd!” in thrilled tones. Laughing out loud, I head back to my office. I need to find out what club Dot was talking about.

Because, if Will’s going to be there with Lena, I damn well plan on showing up, as well.