Diva (The Flappers) - By Jillian Larkin Page 0,26
in a flesh-colored cotton tulle evening dress with a fishtail train and silver beading. A rhinestone evening cap covered most of her hair—only a few dark, wavy tendrils framed her delicate face. Forrest was dapper in a tuxedo. His waistcoat and bow tie were just a shade darker than his white shirt, and a red rose was pinned to his lapel.
Forrest touched Ruby’s hand lightly, letting his fingers linger there. “Goodness, you’re shaking! I would’ve thought singing onstage would be old hat for you by now.”
Ruby smiled back, and her dark eyes positively glowed. Gloria was beginning to wish she hadn’t accompanied Ruby “backstage.” Ruby wouldn’t have to sing for another hour—she’d go on between the Blue Rhythm Orchestra and the famous singer Paul Solomon. Forrest certainly had quite the lineup for his party.
“I still always get nervous,” Ruby confessed. “It’s what I love most about performing—the frightening thrill of it all.” A flush crept up Ruby’s neck. Forrest still hadn’t removed his hand from hers. Now it was clear: Forrest’s feelings for Ruby weren’t as unrequited as Gloria had previously thought.
Ruby suddenly tore her eyes from the young millionaire. “Don’t you agree, Gloria?”
“Considering I’ve only ever worked for gangsters, I’m looking forward to a far less frightening singing career from now on,” Gloria joked. She waited for a laugh, or even a chuckle, but got none. Forrest and Ruby were back to gazing at each other with their matching, nearly black eyes.
Watching those two stare at each other twisted something in Gloria’s chest.
She thought of falling in love with Jerome while he gave her vocal lessons back at the Green Mill in Chicago. She could still feel his hand, firm and strong, right beneath her rib cage. He’d been showing her where her diaphragm was, but Gloria hadn’t been able to focus on anything but his hand and the way it, the way he, made her feel. Gloria could see that the same sort of love was blossoming between Forrest and Ruby.
Too bad Ruby was already married.
“Ruby?” Marty called out, bursting through the library’s side door. There was a brief thunderclap of chatter and laughter from the party guests next door before the door slammed closed. In a tweed suit nowhere near formal enough, Marty looked dull and cheap and tacky.
“Yes?” Ruby said, moving a few inches away from Forrest.
Marty’s cheeks were red, his forehead scrunched up. “What’s this I hear about you singing tonight?”
“I asked her to,” Forrest responded quickly. He made an attempt at his usual charming laugh, but it sounded hollow. “It seems a crime to have Ruby Hayworth here and not have her sing, doesn’t it?”
Marty glared at the taller, younger man. “You think we give the milk away for free? This is a Broadway star you’re talking about! Ruby doesn’t wail without a contract.”
Ruby turned to her husband, eyes wide in dismay. “Marty, what’s one song?”
“You gonna pay those colored boys out there a fee but let my wife go on free of charge? I don’t think so.” Marty seized her arm with his pudgy hand. “She’s a professional. Come on, Ruby.”
She gave Forrest a helpless look as Marty dragged her out the door.
For a moment Forrest looked absolutely crestfallen—his dark eyes were enormous, as though he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Then his brows lowered, his full lips leveled into a straight line, and he clenched his fists at his sides. But he remained silent.
Once they were gone, Forrest smoothed back his brown hair and took a deep breath. He gave Gloria a shadow of his usual grin. “Good thing I had the sense to invite more than one canary to this party.”
Gloria’s mouth fell open. “You can’t mean—”
He laughed, and his disappointment seemed to vanish. How strange, Gloria thought, to seem so downtrodden one second and happy-go-lucky the next.
“You were just saying yesterday how eager you are to get back to your singing career!” Forrest said. “Do you have any idea how many producers and club owners there are out there? You couldn’t ask for a better showcase than this party!”
“But I’m not ready, I haven’t prepared—”
“Don’t worry!” Forrest put a calming hand on her shoulder. “Just sing whatever you want. This is one of the best bands you’ve ever been with—I guarantee it—and they’ll pick up what you throw them and run with it.”
The mention of a band made Gloria think of the last time she’d seen Jerome, how handsome he’d looked sitting at the Opera House’s piano in