LENA

Mr. Benson hails Clara, Dot, and me when we push through the front door and explains Will’s difficulty finding parking out front. He tells us where Will is waiting for us and, linking arms, the three of us set out up the block. We are laughing uproariously over a slightly blue joke Dot heard from Sally when I spot Will’s car. “There he is!”

We run the final steps and I haul open the passenger side door, climb in and greet Will. Dot and Clara clamber into the back.

“Well, hel-lo there, Mr. Jameson!” one of them exclaims.

I freeze. What? Clutching the champagne bottle Henry gifted me to my chest, I swivel in my seat.

And see Booker sitting, larger than life, next to the door behind Will. “What the heck are you doing here?” My heart is kicking up a storm and once again my mouth goes dry.

Booker, as usual, is cool as can be. But he gives me a grin that does wicked things to my heart rate. “Going dancing, rumor has it.”

“He ran into me,” Will says, giving me a little shrug. Then he lowers his voice so only I can hear beneath Dot’s sudden peal of laughter. “Do you mind too much?” he asks softly. “I’ll get rid of him if you do.”

I’m tempted. So, so tempted. And yet—

The way Booker laughed backstage earlier keeps playing in my mind. And the smile on his face just now made me want to smile back. Plus, he has done an awful lot for me lately. It seems small to repay him by saying he can’t go with us to a bar.

Then there’s the matter of that generous check made out to a local Orphanage currently sitting on my dressing table back at the club.

I just found out about it before my first set this evening, when I was about to take the box my dresses came in to one of the stage crew for disposal. The check and an accompanying note were in an envelope in the box, but I didn’t see it until I swept up the tissue paper and the envelope fell out of one of its folds. According to the note, Frederick and Nelson’s cleaning crew found the check beneath the chair Booker sat in outside my dressing room the day we went to the department store for the first fittings. They took it to a supervisor who eventually tracked down Alice, who saw to its return. And honestly?

I would really, really like to know the story behind Booker supporting an orphanage. But it’s back at the club and this isn’t exactly the place to—

Wait a minute.

It’s not at the club, at all. As I was closing the door before going to meet Clara and Dot, I began second guessing myself over leaving such a generous check in an unlocked dressing room, sitting out for anybody to find. I shoved it into my purse to give to Booker the next time I saw him.

Well, here he is and here I am. I open my purse to do just that—to pass it back to Booker—but then stop. This really doesn’t seem like the best time to hand it over, surrounded as we are by Will and the Brasher girls. Booker might not appreciate everyone knowing his business.

Which recalls me back to the present and Will’s offer. “No,” I reply in the same low tone he used. “This has been such a great night. I don’t want to ruin it with bickering.”

So, here I am, moments later, zooming along Highway 99 at forty miles an hour in Will’s old Ford, on our way to Swannee Don’s Speakeasy up in the University district. With not only he and my two bosom pals, but Booker, too, of all people. I look down at my lap.

And smile, assuring myself it’s because of my stunning outfit.

I can almost believe that’s my only reason. After all of my protestations to Clara about not using the dresses Booker supplied for anything other than work, I ended up wearing one tonight. I selected the short, beaded “dance-dress”. It is a beauty, crafted from a yellow under-sheath cut straight across the tops of my breasts and topped with a black sleeveless dress of small-patterned, V-necked chiffon. Alternating bottom panels swirl out when I spin and are outlined with ribbons of metallic gold beading. The points of the Vs that end at the hem frame small-pattern fabric that matches the rest of the over-dress. But where they come to a point around hip height, the fabric is heavily embroidered in patterns of gold beading and sequins. Even with the fancy embellishments, however, this dress is less formal than the others that Booker—I mean, my contribution to the business!—bought me.

I had planned on changing into one of my old dresses. But every time I’d tried to figure out what I should wear for our after-show jaunt, my conversation with Dot the day I bought my beautiful new cloche popped up to haunt me. Because she was right. My wardrobe is nothing to write home about (pretending for a moment one has a home for that). And when I truly give the matter the tiniest bit of thought, I had likely been long overdue to make changes to the contents of my closet a good two or three years ago.

I intend to correct that. Even if it means breaking into my lovely little savings.

I don’t want to go out anymore in the tired old clothes I’ve been wearing for ages. In fact, as soon as I can scratch up an hour or two, I’m going to grab Dot and Clara to help me buy one of those pretty every day, flower-print chiffon dresses.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll even go hog-wild and buy two. But in the meantime—

Swinging around in the front seat to look at Clara and Dot in the back while carefully avoiding looking at Booker, I heft up the champagne bottle. “Say, do either of you know how to get the cork from the bottle without shooting out Will’s windshield?”

“Not me,” Dot says regretfully and Clara agrees champagne cork removal isn’t one of her skills, either.

From the corner of my eye, I see Booker just opening his mouth when Will suddenly swerves over to the curb, making me grab with my free hand for the back of the seat. He takes the car out of gear and sets the brake. “Hand it over.” He pulls a pristine handkerchief from his pocket.

I thought he would roll down his window and shoot the cork out the opening, Instead, he does something with the wire cage thing covering the cork and removes it. He then wraps his hanky around the cork and the foiled neck of the bottle and uses his thumbs to make short work of removing the cork with a soft pop. Some of the champagne foams and fizzes up through the mouth of the bottle and, laughing, Will drinks the overflow. Then he hands the bottle to me.

I drink from the bottle, as well, then pass it back to the girls. “We don’t have any glasses, so we’ll have to make do with this,” I say cheerfully. And truly, who cares what Emily Post would say about an innocent touch of naughtiness? Well, Booker might. But I’m not going to worry about it. It adds to the night’s merriment.

Will hands me the cork he returned to its wire cage and puts the car back in gear. As he shoots back out onto the road, I carefully wrap it in my handkerchief and put the little bundle in my evening bag. I’m keeping it as a souvenir of this evening. Heck, I might even keep the entire bottle. It is the first standard of champagne anyone’s ever given me.

Between us, we kill off the giggle water on our drive to the new speakeasy. Dot, Clara and I do, at any rate, and even Booker downs a couple big gulps. Will merely drinks a single man-sized swallow, claiming only college boys and chumps drive blotto. I am oddly pleased by his responsibility and the knowledge I am always safe in his company. Dot nudges me and hands over the bottle.

We girls are more than a little bubbly by the time we arrive at Swanny Don’s. Will finds a spot to park in the big, dark lot out front and Clara, Dot and I all but tumble out of the car, laughing as we fumble a bit before finding our footing on the graveled lot.

The thump of drums and wail of horns filters through the walls as we approach the gin joint, but it’s nothing compared to when Booker opens the door for us. We’re hit by drifts of smoke and a wall of sound as we step into the dim, moody interior.

Dot whoops and shimmies her shoulders. “Look at all these flyboys!” She raises her voice to exclaim over the music. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

“I see a table,” Will yells and forges a path for us through the speakeasy to claim it.

I look around as we reach the table. “This isn’t near as high-class as your joint,” I say to Booker. “But it’s quite nice, don’tcha think?”

“Yeah, I do. They’ve put together a damn fine club. I like their use of wood in here.”

“I do, too!” There is a lot of it—on the floors, on the walls, in the polished bar and the tables hosting small hurricane lamps—and the wood glows with a warm-toned coating. It makes it cozy and welcoming in here. The band is more raucous than Henry’s smoother sound, but I bet he would say they’re solid. Flappers are dancing the Black Bottom with great energy with officers and airmen of all ranks out on the floor, and there is just a nice, general feel-good air about the place.

We have barely been seated, me between Will and Booker on one side of the small table and the Brasher girls on the other, when I hear a male voice say, “Hey, doll. How’s ‘bout you and me cut a rug.?” I look up from the drinks menu I’m trying to read by the flickering candlelight to see an airman leaning over Dot.

She flashes him a sassy smile and hops to her feet. “You bet! See if you can keep up, fly boy.”

Returning a cocky grin, he offers his arm, elbow bent, and Dot slides her hand beneath it then curls her fingers back over his forearm. Before she lets him escort her away, however, she turns to her sister. “Order me a G and T if the waitress comes while I’m gone,” she says and nods toward her little beaded bag on the table. “There’s some foldin’ money in the inside pocket.” Then she and the airman make their way to the dance floor.

Less than a minute later an officer claims Clara. Then Booker rises from his chair, saying, “I’ll go see if I can get us some drinks,” and makes his way over to the bar.

I turn to Will. “Is it wrong of me to feel both relieved and insulted that no one’s asked me to dance? I mean, I’m really nervous about displaying my not so Jake dancing skills. But...still.”

“You’re sitting between me and Booker, so the fellas probably think you’re taken by one or the other.”

“Okay, that makes me feel better.”

“If you move to the other side, you’ll likely be swamped.”

I shake my head. “That’s all right. I’m not kidding about being nervous. Especially next to those two.” I wave to where Dot and Clara are dancing up a storm, far and beyond superior to the rest of the dancers on the floor when it comes to sheer talent. “The girls have only been teaching me how to dance for a month now.”

“Ah, but you can sing everyone in this joint under the table.” Will taps my nose. “You don’t have to be the best at everything, Lena.”

“That’s true!” I laugh and bump shoulders with my friend. “But you know me—I want to be anyhow.” I pat his hand. “Thanks. You always know what to say when I start overthinking things or get crazy competitive for no good reason. Still. Maybe after I have another drink.”

Booker returns to the table, his hard upper arm rubbing against my shoulder as he takes his seat. I’m still sitting very still, trying to get a handle on the heat pumping through me when the waitress arrives carrying a tray with the drink order just before a second dance ends.

A couple of heartbeats later, Clara and Dot, flushed and laughing, arrive back at the table and grab up their evening bags to pay for their drinks. Booker won’t hear of it, insisting the first round is on him. With an uncanny ability to read each other’s thoughts, as if they truly are the twins I first thought them to be, they simultaneously jump to their feet and round the table to lean down on either side of Booker and kiss his cheeks.

And I am not the least bit jealous. No, sir. Not. The. Least. Bit.

But I might frown at Clara and Dot a little when they resume their seats.

After drinking half my Bee’s Knees, the new to me drink of gin, honey, lemon juice and orange juice Booker selected for me, I get up the nerve to switch to the other side of the table when the girls leave once again to dance with new partners. Almost immediately, I’m invited to dance. Since it’s the Charleston, which I have more confidence I won’t muck up too badly, I accept.

And it’s fun! Danny, my partner, is as bad at dancing as I am, but he laughs at himself when he goes off track and just grins at me with high good nature when I fluff a step. His easy company and the utter fun of dancing settles my overachiever nerves right down.

We have been here perhaps an hour and Booker, who hasn’t danced since we got here—or even said much to anyone—is off buying us more drinks when I find myself out on the floor with an officer named Jeffry. We’re shuffling slowly to one of the dances not requiring much skill, since it’s mostly body-to-body, cheek-to-cheek swaying in place. Ordinarily I might have felt self-conscious being squeezed up against a man who is basically a stranger. Yet all the fellas I’ve danced with tonight have been quite gentlemanly. Everyone here just seems to want to dance and have a jolly time.

Jeffry is too tall to dance cheek-to-cheek with me, but we’re making it work as best we can when a man comes up and taps my partner’s shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?” he asks.

What in heaven’s name? I rise onto my toes to see over Jeffry’s shoulder. Because, I know that voice like I know my own face in a mirror.

And, yep. Sure enough. My heart beating like a kettle drum, I look directly into the light blue eyes of the last man I expected to cut in on my dance with another man.