Diva (The Flappers) - By Jillian Larkin Page 0,20
to Brooklyn Heights to look for a proper restaurant. “We probably shouldn’t expose you to respectable society, as a courtesy,” Marcus said.
So they found a dingy joint near the Fulton Ferry Landing, where they had a dinner of greasy burgers, a bucket of fries, and a shared chocolate milk shake.
The food was delicious in the way only cheap, greasy food could be. Through the restaurant’s smudged windows, they watched the sun set behind the Manhattan skyline and the way the streetlights glinted off the water. Afterward they walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, and when they reached the first of the arches, Marcus kissed her with only the moon and river as an audience.
The entire date had cost about as much as Clara’s appetizer at the Colony. It had been one of the best dates Clara had ever had—magical exactly because it was so ordinary.
Now, Clara peered across the table at handsome, tedious Parker, who was rehashing the Gloria Swanson story for his college buddy. Unlike Parker, Marcus couldn’t have cared less about movie stars or celebrities or Clara’s old, raucous life. He only wanted to be with her because of her: the person Clara hadn’t even been sure was actually there beneath all the glitter. Marcus had showed her that she was still real and interesting once all the witty double-talk and sideways glances were stripped away.
And she had let him go. Now he was marrying someone else.
Parker’s friends finally left. “I’m about finished with my pheasant—how about you?”
Clara nodded. “Yes, it was delicious.”
“Shall I order you another martini before we head out?” He raised his glass to her. “They’re the very best in the city.”
Clara drained the last sip of her drink. “Are they, now? They’re a little cloudy for my taste, really.”
He hiked an eyebrow and grinned. Parker, it seemed, was the sort of man who loved a dissatisfied woman. Clara had found that young men who came to early, large success with comparatively little struggle usually did. “Hmm. Well, I just got a silver-plated shaker and haven’t had the chance to test it out yet. Shall we try to give the Colony a run for its money?”
Just a few moments ago Clara had been eagerly awaiting the end of the date. But the image of Marcus and his perfect little fiancée popped up in her mind. The Marcus who’d kissed her sunburned cheeks was lost to her now. Clara could be heartbroken alone, or she could have some company. Even if that company was Parker.
“All right,” she said. “But there will be no shaking. I’m a girl who likes her martinis stirred.”
Clara had thought the view from Parker’s office was good, but the view from his apartment put it to shame.
Through the many floor-to-ceiling windows in Parker’s living room Clara could see the wide expanse of Central Park and the lights of the city floating around it. The room was filled with oak bookcases, and framed articles hung on the walls. A long leather couch curved in an L-shape across a Persian rug, and the dimmed lighting gave everything a lush, classy feel. Parker was a man with real taste. There was no question about that.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Parker stood uncomfortably close to her in front of the window, his arm pressing against hers. “I had a bidding war with Richard Whitney from the New York Stock Exchange over this place, you know. He put up some real cabbage, but I won in the end. I couldn’t lose out on this view.”
God, did he ever stop bragging? “Yeah, it’s jake,” she mumbled, bored.
“So, how’s that cousin of yours doing since we sprang her from the big house?”
Clara shrugged and moved over to put some distance between them. “She’s out of town, so I haven’t heard much from her.” Just a postcard from Long Island: I’ll be out of the city for a while—can’t really say why—but I’m doing fine and I miss you! “She’s taking the train into the city for a day week after next and we have plans to get lunch—I’ll give you an update then.”
“Just a day? What for?”
“She has a dress fitting for this wedding she’s in,” Clara replied. She hoped Parker didn’t ask her whose wedding. Talking to Parker about Marcus was the last thing she wanted to do right now.
“Oh, the Eastman wedding?” Parker asked, twisting something in Clara’s chest. “How is that old beau of yours?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Clara said curtly.
“The sap’s probably busy flunking his way out of Columbia.