Diva (The Flappers) - By Jillian Larkin Page 0,19

The Colony was Parker’s favorite restaurant. It was a lovely place in an understated way—silver sconces on the white wood-paneled walls, ivory pillars, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. White cloths covered the tables, and vases of poppies stood in the center of each. A person wouldn’t even know that the Prohibition amendment had been passed in a spot like this. The restaurant counted too many government officials among its regulars to ever have to worry about a gin bust.

But people didn’t come to the Colony for the décor or the booze—they came for the stars. Clara had already spotted two Vanderbilts and three senators. Louise Brooks, the silent-film actress, demurely sipped a glass of amber liquid at a corner table, the ends of her short, dark bob flawless against her porcelain cheeks.

Perhaps the banquette getting the most looks was that of Babe Ruth, the famed baseball player and unofficial King of New York. The big man looked as at home in a suit as he did in his Yankees uniform. He had his arm around the beautiful young girl sitting beside him—a girl who was definitely not his wife.

Clara had wanted to sit in one of the upholstered banquettes in the back, but Parker had been quick to request the table by the window—where all the patrons couldn’t help but see them on walking through the restaurant’s double doors.

For what seemed like the thousandth time that evening, someone walked over to the table. “Parker, old boy! How are you?” The man speaking was young and handsome, with a doe-eyed girl on his arm. The girl was far too young to be wearing so many diamonds.

Parker sprang from his seat. “Robert Paddington! Clara, this is an old college buddy of mine, plays the Wall Street game now. Robert, you’ll be pleased to meet Clara Knowles. Remember all the stories we used to hear about her?”

Robert reached over to kiss Clara’s hand. “The Queen of the Shebas, of course! Looking as beautiful as the stories say.”

“Thank you.” Her sleeveless black silk crepe evening dress had bands of Oriental-patterned gold lamé and a two-tiered hem. The neckline was respectably high, but wide armholes gave just the right flash of skin whenever Clara moved to lift her martini.

“That’s right! She and I are together now,” Parker said, puffing his chest out proudly. First a degree from Columbia, then a career as a successful magazine editor, then a famous flapper for a girlfriend: all stepping-stones to becoming the rich and interesting man that Parker so longed to be.

“We work together,” Clara corrected. A few fancy dinners—most of which were spent discussing work—did not make the two of them a couple, not in her book.

While Parker made small talk with Robert and his lady friend, Clara’s thoughts drifted back to a dinner date nowhere near as sophisticated as this one. It had been a week after Clara had arrived in New York. She and Marcus had lounged on the East River ferry, quietly baking underneath the afternoon sun.

“Now you can proudly tell your friends that you’ve been inside the Statue of Liberty!” Marcus had exclaimed with an arm slung over her shoulder. “Explored her every nook and cranny. Compromised her virtue by climbing—”

“Marcus!” Clara swatted him and laughed. She peered out at the aquamarine statue, which was slowly becoming smaller and smaller. “I like it much more at a distance. Up close it’s just stairs, stairs, and more stairs.”

“With a fantastic view at the top, though, you have to admit.”

“And a fantastically hot sun pounding down on us,” Clara replied, tired and cranky. While very fashionable, cloche hats did next to nothing to protect a girl against sunburn. “Be honest—am I red all over?”

Marcus turned to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and surveyed her. “Yes. Red as a ripe tomato.” He kissed one of her cheeks lightly with his velvet-soft lips. “You are quite possibly the most hideous sight I’ve ever seen.” He kissed her other cheek. “You should be glad there are no children on this boat. Their screams would be deafening! The horror!”

“You’re one to talk,” Clara said, and flicked his red nose.

“Ouch!”

“You look like a dipsomaniac. Or like you have a fever.” Sunburned Marcus might have been even more adorable than Regular Marcus.

“Just the fever of my love for you, darling,” he replied with a grin. Then he gave her a kiss that made her forget all about her sunburn.

When they reached shore, they were too tired to journey back