Lorraine stood beside her. “We need to talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” Clara snapped, yanking her arm away. “And don’t ever touch me again.”
A very tiny part of Clara wanted to know what Lorraine Dyer was doing here. But she couldn’t imagine a person she wanted to see—or chat with—less. Lorraine was just one more reminder of Chicago. Of Marcus. And Clara couldn’t bear to think about her ex-boyfriend just now. Don’t cry , she told herself.
Clara whipped her head around, trying to find an escape route, when a tall redheaded boy with thick-framed glasses appeared and blocked her in.
“Raine, I’ve been looking all over for you. You said you and Becky were just going to get drinks!” His brown suit hung baggy on his thin frame. He might have been cute, but the oversized glasses made it nearly impossible to tell.
“It was crowded at the bar,” the blonde girl—Becky—said dreamily, “but I think I saw Rudolph Valentino!”
Lorraine ignored them. “Clara, I’m not playing any games this time.” She waved a hand in the air. “I’ve turned over a new leaf! A whole tree of new leaves! I haven’t had a drink in eight weeks!”
Clara pointed to the half-empty martini glass in Lorraine’s hand.
Lorraine’s face twisted. “Other than this one!”
“She’s telling the truth,” Becky said. “She’s been sober as a nun.”
Clara groaned. “I don’t care whether you’re drier than the Gobi; I don’t want to have anything to do with you.” She shoved past them.
As she walked away, she half recognized a few faces from the Manhattan party scene: a handsome man wearing a top hat, a blonde in shimmering gold lamé. What were their names? Maybe she could convince one of them to give her a ride home.…
“This isn’t about me!” Clara heard Lorraine call out from behind her. “It’s about Marcus!”
Clara stopped dead in her tracks.
Marcus . She couldn’t escape him for even a few minutes, could she? They were no longer together, he was about to marry someone else, yet even now hearing his name gave her chills. It called him up where he was always lurking at the surface of her memory, and suddenly it was as if he were standing right next to her, looking dapper and slightly amused, one blond eyebrow raised, a smile quirking the corners of his lips, just before kissing her ever so lightly at the nape of her neck.
“He’s in mortal danger!” Lorraine yelled, causing several guests to glance over.
Before Clara even realized what she was doing, she marched her patent-leather heels right back to Lorraine. She crossed her arms and looked up at the taller girl. “Mortal danger? Really, Lorraine? Start talking. This had better be good.”
As soon as Lorraine opened her in-desperate-need-of-blotting mouth to speak, she froze with her eyes fixed on the stage. Ruby was still singing—she was absolutely killing it. Clara had never seen the Broadway star’s hit show, but her voice definitely sounded familiar. Lorraine’s mouth continued to hang open. “Oh my God,” she finally said.
Clara whipped around to face the stage. And she saw that the singer wasn’t Ruby Hayworth at all. It was Gloria.
“Seriously?” Clara said. “You have got to be kidding me.”
LORRAINE
Lorraine always thought that if heartbreak were a sound, it would be like shattering glass or the angry screech of a halting train. But Gloria Carmody’s voice was pure heartbreak, all right, and it sounded fantastic .
Her old friend looked beyond beautiful. Gloria’s short, flame-red hair waved softly around her doll-like face like some kind of halo. She’d gained some of her weight back since her stint at the Opera House, but those sharp cheekbones and that world-weary depth in her big, pale eyes were here to stay. Her dress was pink, as it had been the night of her first and only performance at the Opera House. But that dress had been pale pink—just a rosy shade darker than white. Lorraine
“I have nothing to say to you,” Clara snapped, yanking her arm away. “And don’t ever touch me again.”
A very tiny part of Clara wanted to know what Lorraine Dyer was doing here. But she couldn’t imagine a person she wanted to see—or chat with—less. Lorraine was just one more reminder of Chicago. Of Marcus. And Clara couldn’t bear to think about her ex-boyfriend just now. Don’t cry , she told herself.
Clara whipped her head around, trying to find an escape route, when a tall redheaded boy with thick-framed glasses appeared and blocked her in.
“Raine, I’ve been looking all over for you. You said you and Becky were just going to get drinks!” His brown suit hung baggy on his thin frame. He might have been cute, but the oversized glasses made it nearly impossible to tell.
“It was crowded at the bar,” the blonde girl—Becky—said dreamily, “but I think I saw Rudolph Valentino!”
Lorraine ignored them. “Clara, I’m not playing any games this time.” She waved a hand in the air. “I’ve turned over a new leaf! A whole tree of new leaves! I haven’t had a drink in eight weeks!”
Clara pointed to the half-empty martini glass in Lorraine’s hand.
Lorraine’s face twisted. “Other than this one!”
“She’s telling the truth,” Becky said. “She’s been sober as a nun.”
Clara groaned. “I don’t care whether you’re drier than the Gobi; I don’t want to have anything to do with you.” She shoved past them.
As she walked away, she half recognized a few faces from the Manhattan party scene: a handsome man wearing a top hat, a blonde in shimmering gold lamé. What were their names? Maybe she could convince one of them to give her a ride home.…
“This isn’t about me!” Clara heard Lorraine call out from behind her. “It’s about Marcus!”
Clara stopped dead in her tracks.
Marcus . She couldn’t escape him for even a few minutes, could she? They were no longer together, he was about to marry someone else, yet even now hearing his name gave her chills. It called him up where he was always lurking at the surface of her memory, and suddenly it was as if he were standing right next to her, looking dapper and slightly amused, one blond eyebrow raised, a smile quirking the corners of his lips, just before kissing her ever so lightly at the nape of her neck.
“He’s in mortal danger!” Lorraine yelled, causing several guests to glance over.
Before Clara even realized what she was doing, she marched her patent-leather heels right back to Lorraine. She crossed her arms and looked up at the taller girl. “Mortal danger? Really, Lorraine? Start talking. This had better be good.”
As soon as Lorraine opened her in-desperate-need-of-blotting mouth to speak, she froze with her eyes fixed on the stage. Ruby was still singing—she was absolutely killing it. Clara had never seen the Broadway star’s hit show, but her voice definitely sounded familiar. Lorraine’s mouth continued to hang open. “Oh my God,” she finally said.
Clara whipped around to face the stage. And she saw that the singer wasn’t Ruby Hayworth at all. It was Gloria.
“Seriously?” Clara said. “You have got to be kidding me.”
LORRAINE
Lorraine always thought that if heartbreak were a sound, it would be like shattering glass or the angry screech of a halting train. But Gloria Carmody’s voice was pure heartbreak, all right, and it sounded fantastic .
Her old friend looked beyond beautiful. Gloria’s short, flame-red hair waved softly around her doll-like face like some kind of halo. She’d gained some of her weight back since her stint at the Opera House, but those sharp cheekbones and that world-weary depth in her big, pale eyes were here to stay. Her dress was pink, as it had been the night of her first and only performance at the Opera House. But that dress had been pale pink—just a rosy shade darker than white. Lorraine
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