I can show to the FBI—and I’ll help you get away.”
Gloria gasped when Ruby swerved out of their lane, nearly crashing into a honking blue Cadillac. She parked on the shoulder of the road, twenty feet away from the tollbooths into New York City.
Ruby turned and gave Gloria an exhilarated smile. She extended her hand. “A deal isn’t a deal without a proper handshake.”
Gloria shook her hand. “I really hope you’re right about Forrest and that things work out for you two.”
“Thank you. I hope the best for you and Jerome, too.”
Jerome. Gloria’s stomach swirled at the sound of his name. Now that she had a clear path to some professional success, she had to turn her focus to reuniting with the love of her life—before anything else terrible happened to him.
CLARA
It was Clara’s first visit to a bridal salon and she was here with Lorraine Dyer. By choice. Life certainly was full of strange surprises.
Lorraine nudged her side as they passed by the first rack by the door. “You see the third one from the left? With the halter top and the lace?”
Priscilla’s Bridal Salon had looked elegant enough through its expansive front windows, but it was posilutely gorgeous inside. Embossed lavender wallpaper covered the walls, and glass tables topped with fresh flowers were sprinkled throughout the shop. Several floor-to-ceiling windows let in tons of natural light and illuminated the racks of dazzling white dresses.
“Umm … I think so.” Clara looked around and saw dresses in every shade of white, from the blinding snow to nearly pale yellow. The tastefully placed silver racks were a riot of stunning lace detailing and luxurious silk. Clara recognized the Coco Chanel gowns by their short hemlines and long tulle trains.
“You think my dad would get angry if I bought it now?” Lorraine bit one of her fingernails. “I mean, of course I’m going to get married eventually, right?”
Clara couldn’t help but share a little of Lorraine’s enthusiasm. She pointed to a dress on her right with beautiful little cap sleeves and some of the most intricate beadwork she’d ever seen. “That one’s my favorite.”
Only a few months earlier, she’d fantasized about wearing a dress just like that opposite Marcus. She’d never imagined a big, swanky event—certainly not the Plaza. It had always just been the idea of looking deeply into Marcus’s too-blue eyes throughout the ceremony and knowing she’d get to keep doing it for the rest of her life.
But now his gaze belonged to someone else—the very someone Lorraine and Clara had been following from Barnard’s campus since she’d gotten out of her one and only class. (Which was French, by the way. What kind of French girl needed to take French?)
“Where is she?” Lorraine asked, craning her neck.
“I don’t know,” Clara said. “Maybe you shouldn’t have tried on so many shoes across the street.”
“You said we had to bide our time! I was simply biding my time trying on shoes!”
Clara rolled her eyes. “Twenty pairs?”
A woman in a tailored gray suit appeared next to them, startling them both. Her gray hair was pulled into a severe knot at the nape of her neck, and her drawn-on eyebrows were downright terrifying. She stood with crossed arms and scowled at Lorraine and Clara. “Can I help you?”
Clara smiled at Lorraine and looked back at the woman: Marguerite, her name tag said. “My best friend, Julia, here is about to get married!” Clara exclaimed. “It’s so exciting.”
“And Becky here is going to be my maid of honor, of course,” Lorraine said, looping her arm through Clara’s. “We’d love to try on a few dresses.”
Marguerite’s expression didn’t change. “You don’t have an appointment.”
“I know,” Lorraine said. “But I saw these beautiful dresses through the window and I just couldn’t resist! My fiancé, Renaldo, would just die if he saw me in one of these lovely creations. I mean, of course, he wouldn’t really die—he’s got to stick around for the honeymoon! We’re going to Paris, you know, and—”
Marguerite stared at Lorraine’s hand. “Where’s your engagement ring?”
Lorraine raised her eyebrows and seemed lost for words, but only for about half a second. “Where’s yours, you old maid!” She began to pace in front of the desk. “Do you have any idea who my father is? Clar—uh, I mean, Becky, can you believe the way she’s treating us? Why, if my father knew you were being so rude, he’d buy this place right out from under you and you’d never work in this town again! He’d