Diva (The Flappers) - By Jillian Larkin Page 0,16
so excited about books. Forrest should’ve been a complete contradiction—a man with a serious love of literature who also had a mansion full of dissolute young things with names like Glitz and Glamour. But he managed to walk the tightrope between intellectual and playboy beautifully, and be all the more likable for it. Gloria leaped out of her lawn chair. “I’ll go! I haven’t got much of a tan to work on anyway.”
Forrest offered his arm. “Then we’ll head back to the house so you can get changed.” Once they were out of earshot of the two blondes, Forrest said, “Between you and me, I’ve always found pale skin far more attractive.”
Gloria blushed. “Ruby has lovely skin,” she said quickly. “Will she and her husband be coming along, too?”
“I wish she could—she always has some new author or poet to recommend to me.” The words tumbled out of Forrest’s mouth. For all his usual self-assurance, Forrest shifted into an overeager boy whenever he spoke of Ruby. “Like that T. S. Eliot fellow! I’d never heard of him till Ruby lent me a book of his poems. Now I’ve read it through about a dozen times. But Ruby’s too busy reading scripts all day to come with us. With Marty looking over her shoulder, no doubt.”
Gloria frowned. Hank could send her all the sequined and gold lamé masterpieces he wanted, but it seemed that Forrest only had eyes for someone else: Ruby Hayworth.
So how exactly was Gloria going to stay out of jail?
Forrest groaned. “Oh, not that Fitzgerald kid again! I could barely stay awake through his first book. So overrated.”
“This Side of Paradise wasn’t really my cup of tea, either.” Gloria waved the book in her hand. “This one is different, though. It’s about flappers.” She thought of her friends in the city. What was Clara up to now? And that viper Lorraine—Gloria would be happy never to see her again.
Forrest took the copy of The Beautiful and Damned, opened it, and read the inside flap. “I think you only like it because the leading lady has your name.”
Gloria laughed. “From what I hear, her name might as well be Zelda.” The two continued down the aisles of Scribner’s, commenting on leather-bound volumes they had read, wanted to read, or would never, ever read even under threat of death. “You’re one to talk about boring literature. You’re buying a book of Sherlock Holmes stories!”
“What could ever be boring about the life of London’s most brilliant detective?” Forrest asked.
“So predictable! I don’t recall Fitzgerald ending every one of his stories with the hero emerging from a cloud of opium smoke, magically ready to save the day.”
“Mmm, that’s exactly my problem with him.”
Gloria laughed again. Much as she tried to focus on getting information out of Forrest, it was hard to do anything but enjoy herself.
“I like you, Gloria,” Forrest observed, echoing her thoughts. “It’s nice to talk to a girl who knows she can use her brain for more than pairing shoes with the right dress.”
Gloria smiled. She had actually spent a considerable amount of time choosing the right pumps to go with her floral day dress. “I like you, too, Forrest.”
And it was true: She did like Forrest. His sudden wealth might have been suspicious, but this sweet, earnest boy was a world away from the money-grubbing gangsters Gloria had tangled with for the past year.
“We have a lot in common,” Forrest went on. “We’ve both taken the hard route in life.” He casually hooked his arm through hers. “Followed our hearts no matter what—even when the people close to us sold their dreams for thirty pieces of silver.”
Gloria blinked, unsure of his meaning. “Forrest, what do you—?”
But he had already abandoned her for another tall maple bookcase. Gloria sighed. Whenever Forrest got close to saying something the least bit personal about himself, he was always off on some new tack the very next second. Was he just easily distracted, or was there something more sinister at work? She let out another sigh and followed him.
Forrest held up a thick volume and handed it to Gloria. “Now I have a book for you,” he said triumphantly.
A Passage to India, the cover read at the top, and, below, E. M. Forster, in red against an off-white background.
Gloria turned it over in her hands, frowning. “I’m not really much for traveling narratives.…”
“It’s not that at all, though! It’s all about the terrible way the British have been treating the Indians ever since