BOOKER

Hearing Henry proclaim “Lo-La Baker!” in that deep, rich radio announcer voice he uses to great effect, I look up from the office ledger I dragged out to the lounge. I have been sitting here at my usual table, ice melting in a largely untouched bourbon as I try to find the entry that’s been preventing Leo and me from reconciling the books this week. And I’m doing this by fucking candlelight, of all the idiotic ideas, because I don’t want to miss Lena’s entrance.

Turns out, it is worth every bit of discomfort, because as she rises up through the floor and the audience goes wild, I forget the slight thumping in my left temple from an aggravating case of eye strain, forget the annoyingly elusive forty-seven dollars and eighty-three cents we’re off, the amount of which rings a familiarity bell in the back of my mind without giving me the first clue as to why. Staring at Lena, I finally pick up my watered-down drink and knock back half of it in one large gulp to sooth a throat abruptly gone drier than dust.

She is wearing “my” dress as I secretly think of it. The final selection Alice, the seamstress at Frederick’s, brought out for her to try on the day we went in for her gown fittings. This is the curve hugging black and tan gown that clings to Lena’s body like a lover.

I shift in my seat. Shit. Those are the last terms I need to be thinking in.

When Lena leans into the mic and sings, “It. Had to be. Yoooou,” in a sultry alto, however, I almost forget the gown and the body it showcases. “It had to be yooou.”

The words, sung with searing emotion, arrow through my soul, every damn syllable branding Lena’s imprint over yet another inch of me. It’s always been her. It always will be. We were fated, mated, from the moment she kissed my minor ‘owie’ better outside our hometown hardware store.

It had to be you, indeed.

This is a new addition to her lineup. I approved its addition to her first set with Henry, but have never actually heard Lena sing the song. And, damn, have I missed out! She has turned it into a torch song far different from Isham Jone’s original, fast paced rendition. And I feel like she’s singing straight to me when she goes on in that throaty voice:

And God help us all. I want to whisk her away now, this minute. Drag her back to my place. I want—

I blow out a frustrated breath. Something I can’t have; that’s what I want. At least not right this minute. Catching John’s attention over at the bar he’s manning, I signal for a fresh drink.

I love this speakeasy more than just about anything else in my life. My reverence is due, in no small part, to the fact that I turned a fairly run down space into the elegant lounge I had dreamed about for years. And I did it all by myself.

Okay, not entirely by myself. The minute I contacted Leo about coming to work for me, he left his hometown in Ohio and moved out here to help me make my dream a thriving operation. But I did it with neither my father’s help nor his money.

Consequently, I doesn’t bother me I spend the lion’s share of my time here and have little social life outside of the Twilight Room. Tonight, though, I’m grateful it’s Saturday and we’ll be closing early. I keep half expecting that any minute now Lena will come tell me she talked to Dot and Clara and they insist she stay with them. Which ought to make me happy for her.

But, damn I don’t want her going anywhere except home with me! I’m pleased when I hear Henry announce last call without Lena stopping by to make my expectations a reality.

The swells and the flappers vacate the joint after the final number and I collect the money from John at the bar, then head back to my office as the lounge begins settling down. I am just coming to the backstage corridor to my office when I hear a sudden burst of excited laughter, then chatter from what sounds like every damn one of my employees. Shit. Did I forget someone’s birthday? I swear I didn’t see anyone’s name in today’s calendar entries.

Leo looks up from tidying his desk as I walk into the office, glancing at the ledger in my hand. “You find the problem?”

“No, but we’ll deal with it tomorrow. Go on home, Sarge.”

“Don’t mind if I do. I woke up way too early today, so it’s been a long one.” He blows out a breath. Grimaces. “Plus, I got another letter from Millie.”

Oh, hell. Millie is Leo’s faithless ex-wife, who wrote him a goddamn Dear John letter while we were fighting for our lives in the trenches. She has since decided she regrets the divorce and can’t seem to accept she broke the faith with Leo in a way impossible to repair.

Amid the dwindling sounds of employees chatting as they begin trickling out, Leo grabs his hat and coat. “See you tomorrow,” he says and heads for home, as well.

Minutes later, all goes quiet. I finish counting the take from the bar and put it in the safe. I’m beginning to think maybe Lena left with the Brasher sisters after all when there’s a light tap on my door and Lena’s voice softly calling my name.

I grin, then rein it in because I kind of fear my mouth is stretched so wide and my smile’s so loopy-relieved, I look like a damn idiot. “Come in.” I toss my mechanical pencil on the desk and lean back in my chair.

She sticks her head in the door and gives me a dazzling smile. Whoa, Nellie. I sit up.

“Hi,” she murmurs.

“Hi, yourself. Ready to go home?”

I could almost swear she shivers, but maybe not, because she says uncertainly, “I am, but can I ask a favor of you first?”

Something has her damn near vibrating and I push back from the desk to stand. “Sure. What do you need?”

“Oh, my gosh, you gotta see this,” she says breathlessly, stepping into the office. She thrusts something out at me.

I look down. It’s a—I’m not sure what, exactly, so I narrow my eyes and actually study it for a moment. It’s a wooden star encrusted with costume jewelry. I look at her helplessly. “It’s, uh—

“Beautiful, right? I know!” She beams up at me, her entire face aglow. “It’s for my dressing room door—see the little whatchamacallit on the back? Clara and Dot made it for me with the stage fellas’ help. Roger cut the star out of some leftover pine and Ernie sanded it smooth and stained it. And just about everyone working here brought in orphaned jewelry that’s no longer part of a big set. Those are called a parure, did you know that? I didn’t, but it’s fun to learn something new, isn’t it? Anyhow, they brought in stuff that’s no longer part of a parure or a set—I think a parure has to be more than two matching pieces—but stuff they hung onto in case the missing piece showed up. Isn’t that the way it usually goes? The lost piece usually isn’t found, so its mate sits forgotten in the bottom of whatever you use to keep your jewelry in.”

She shakes her head and waves a hand as if batting mosquito netting away from her face. “Sorry,” she says. “You might remember I tend to go off subject.” She points to a small crystal Art Deco piece. “So, this is the earring that was left when Sally lost its mate. This one and this one are from two different pairs of Henry’s cufflinks. The tie pin here is from Benson. It didn’t have a mate, of course—he just thought I would like it. Isn’t that the sweetest thing?” She flashes me her delighted smile again.

Then she points at a brooch in the middle of the star. “This was Elsie’s. One of the crystals fell out, so Dot cut off that part. Don’t ask me how, because that couldn’t have been easy. But she and Clara put so much work into this for me and I want you to hang it on my door, okay?”

This, I think. This woman standing in front of me, talking fast and barely drawing breath between words, is the Lena I remember in a nutshell. And she is still every bit as appreciative as she was back then.

During my time in France, I was often present in clubs when men presented their wives or mistresses with an expensive piece of jewelry. With the exception of the woman whose fella asked for her hand in marriage, I honest to God cannot remember any of the others displaying as much enthusiasm as Lena does for this gift from her friends. She is all but bouncing up and down with excitement over a star crafted from discarded and forgotten costume jewelry, disregarding its rag-tag origins and thrilled by the thoughtfulness of every single person who contributed to the gift.

As I reach out to take the star from her hands, I kind of wish someone had asked me to donate something. Checking the back of the decoration, I see Roger cut out a small notch and taped a screw next to it. All I have to do is put the screw in the door and its head will slip into the notch to hold it nice and flush against the door. “Let me get a screwdriver and we’ll get it mounted.”

Laughing exuberantly, she claps her hands. “Thank you!”

Ten minutes later, I step back from her door and glance over at Lena. “What do you think?”

Hugging clasped hands atop her lush breasts, she sighs. “It’s just perfect.”

“Well, almost,” I say, pointing out a small gap between Elsie’s brooch and what I learned was another, smaller brooch donated by Clara. “It needs something here. We’ll have to look through my mismatched stuff when we get home.”

Her face lights up. “You’d do that?”

I’m pretty sure my heart just seized, but Jesus. She sounds so damn thrilled you’d think I had offered her a diamond bracelet. “Of course. I’d like to be a part of your gift.”

“That is the berries!” She smacks my arm. “C’mon, what the heck are you waiting for?” She whirls on the balls of her little T-strap shoes and sashays off down the hall.