Her heart sank. She tried again, but no luck. How silly to think he’d have left it unlocked.
Then Gloria pivoted and found herself staring into a pair of cold gray eyes.
She gasped. The man was about her father’s age, dressed well in a charcoal-gray suit and a scarlet bow tie. He had burly arms and a prominent scar that ran diagonally from the right side of his nose, across the bridge, and up to his left eyebrow. A thick gray mustache sat atop his upper lip, while his head was completely bald, and his eyes were only a bluish shade darker than white.
“What are you doing?” he growled.
Gloria hid her hands behind her back, not wanting the man to see them shaking. Why did he seem so familiar?
“I—um—”
“Speak up,” the man said, coming closer.
Then it hit her: She recognized him from a photograph in Hank’s file on Forrest. His name was Pembroke, and he worked for Forrest as some sort of servant.
“Pembroke!” she cried out.
He seemed surprised that she knew his name. “Yes?”
“I’m … late! To perform!” She rushed past him without waiting for a response, without looking back, even though she could feel Pembroke’s eyes on her. Watching.
The grand room was far more crowded than it had been before. The party had truly started.
The red-carpeted staircase curved down to the marble floor. Skylights lined the arched ceiling on either side of the room, and chandeliers dripping with crystals hung between them. At each corner stood thick ivory columns. At least two or three men and women stood around each column, kissing, laughing, smoking, or just leaning back and taking a rest from dancing. On any available surface sat delicate ivory vases filled with roses—red, white, and even some that had been dyed black. White-coated waiters moved through the crowd with silver platters of crab-stuffed mushrooms and cucumber-watercress sandwiches held high.
On the left was a stage with a heavy gold velvet curtain and matching golden wood floor. Just in front of that spread a wide dance floor, where bobbed women and men in top hats hopped and kicked at a dizzying pace. These dancers were scary good—probably due to the fact that many of them danced on Broadway for a living.
Groups of Forrest’s well-dressed friends gathered around various paintings on the walls, pointing with long cigarette holders as they carried on spirited discussions about the significance of each work. They seemed more intelligent and refined than anyone Gloria had met in New York or Chicago. Maybe it was because they were older, or because they had the artistic sensibilities that came with a life in the theater.
Before Gloria even stepped onto the marble floor, a group of party guests had gathered around her. “Gloria Carmody!” a tall, handsome man exclaimed. He had slicked-back hair and couldn’t be older than thirty. He wore a red scarf looped over his formal suit, a personal touch that would’ve looked ridiculous on anyone else. “The singing jailbird! I heard you were from Chicago.” He extended his hand. “Charles LeMaire. I so love meeting other Chi-town natives, especially when their stories are as fascinating as yours!”
“Thank you,” Gloria said, shaking his hand. “What do you do? ”
“I’m a costume designer.” He gestured toward the two girls standing beside him. “This is Mara Livingston and Lisa Burrows—they have to wear getups made entirely of feathers in the Follies if I tell them to.”
“He does and I did,” Lisa said. “Very itchy.” Her bob was an even deeper red than Gloria’s. She was dressed in a lime-green satin dress that seemed tame until she turned and Gloria saw that it was backless.
“At least you didn’t perform in the Heavenly Goddess number,” Mara replied. She had light brown hair that looked blond in the right light and wore a black silk lace evening dress with an elaborate beaded pinwheel pattern. “I’m still picking the glitter out of my hair, and we performed the number three weeks ago!”
“The Follies? As in the Ziegfeld Follies?” Gloria had to stop herself from squealing. The costume designer for the Follies knew who she was?
Charles nodded. “So I hear from Forrest that you’re going to perform for us. What are you planning to sing? I can’t wait to finally hear that bluesy voice of yours.”
“ ‘I Ain’t Got Nobody,’ ” Gloria replied. “Do you know it?”
“You certainly can’t go wrong with Marion Harris,” a woman’s deep voice said. She was in her early forties and wore a tasteful peach-colored dress with a wide