fished around in her gold, shell-shaped purse. “I can fix that!” She withdrew her black eyebrow pencil.
Melvin stepped backward when she aimed the pencil at his face. “You’re not even going to ask my permission first?”
Lorraine threw her hands up. “This is a life-or-death situation, Melvin!”
“No, it’s not!” Melvin replied. “Why would you even say that?”
She paused. “Okay, but a friend of ours, the man Clara loves, is about to ruin his life. Are you really going to let him do it, knowing you could’ve done something to help?”
Melvin stared at her with his tiny brown eyes for a few seconds, then sighed. “Oh, fine.” He held still so Lorraine could draw a thin mustache above his lips and a mole on his left cheek. It didn’t look too bad, if Lorraine said so herself.
It was clear from Parker’s face that he didn’t agree. “That’ll never fool anyone.”
“Not unless she’s blind,” Solomon agreed.
“But that’s just it,” Lorraine replied. “She basically is! Clara and I saw this girl up close. She squints; she’s nearsighted.”
Clara nodded in confirmation. “She’s right. Vain girls never wear glasses.”
“If we keep Melvin here far enough away, she won’t be able to be sure he’s not this Benji jamoke,” Lorraine said. She looked at the others, ready to receive her praise for coming up with such a brilliant solution.
Solomon took the photo back and glared at Melvin. “Even if she thinks it’s him, the moment he opens his mouth, she’ll know the truth. Benji has a serious Southern accent.”
Lorraine waved him off. “The man’s name is Benji. How serious could his accent be?”
“Serious enough,” Parker said. “But Clara’s going to do all the talking.”
“What?” Clara asked, incredulous.
They all looked up when they heard the sound of strings. The white-suited wedding band was seated next to the canopy and was starting to warm up. The guests took this as their cue to take their seats.
Lorraine walked toward the aisle with the others trailing behind her. Her plan was good, she knew it was—even if no one else thought so. Plus, it wasn’t like they had time to come up with anything else.
It was now or never.
GLORIA
Forrest mopped at his forehead with his handkerchief and used his other hand to offer Gloria his gold-plated flask.
“Here, kid. You look like you could use it.”
Gloria took in the stately wedding guests crowded around them in the Plaza’s marble-floored lobby. The debutante on her left fingered the feathered skirt of her peach gown and confirmed to a reporter that, why, yes, they were real ostrich feathers. On her right was a crowd of Marcus’s old prep school friends from Chicago, enthusiastically discussing Babe Ruth’s latest home run. The stately room—with its high ceilings and countless tall windows bordered by gold curtains—was packed to the gills with a rainbow of wedding guests dressed in the finest clothing that money could buy.
When Marcus asked Gloria to be his “best girl,” Gloria had expected to wear the same flouncy dress as Anastasia’s bridesmaids. But instead, Marcus had commissioned a black silk halter dress with a white lace bodice. There was a black bow at the center of the bodice and a line of black buttons beneath it.
Gloria took a swig from the flask. She and Forrest could’ve filled a novel with all the tabloid pieces that had been written about them. But they were practically invisible in this sea of New York and Chicago royalty.
“You don’t look so great yourself,” Gloria replied, handing back the flask. Since she’d met him, Forrest had never looked anything but perfectly groomed. But now he was a sweaty mess. His nervous fidgeting had quickly loosened his pomade-tamed dark hair into unruly waves. Sweat dotted his brow, and he constantly tugged at his dark green silk tie.
Gloria tried to let the booze relax her, but it wasn’t working. She could barely focus on the snooty guests crowded around them or the crystal chandeliers hanging above. When a waiter offered her a finger sandwich, she thought she might be sick.
When she recognized a gaggle of Laurelton Prep graduates, she tilted her head downward and hoped they wouldn’t see her. They didn’t, but she did hear her name:
“I wonder where Gloria Carmody is,” Anna Thomas said, twisting her unfashionably long brown hair between her fingers. “Do you think she got a job in another gin joint?”
“I doubt it,” Helen Darling said, and slurped at her lemonade.
“She’s probably off getting arrested again with her colored boyfriend,” Amelia Stone said. “Remember the way we