Flirtinis with Flappers by Marianne Mancusi Page A

before, risking their lives to fight for their country. And the women could have been nurses at the time, angels in white, bandaging and comforting their wounded and dying men. Or they could have been back home…making, um, rivets? Or whatever random war thing that Rosie the Riveter chick made to help her boys overseas. Though technically she might have been from World War II—my history was decidedly weak. 
    In any case, these partygoers certainly weren't necking and dancing and drinking and smoking a decade ago. It was almost as if the war had scarred them so much that they'd blocked it from their minds and adopted a sort of extreme opposite hedonism to deal with the memories.
    Sort of like someone else I knew. Minus the hedonism, of course. In fact, minus anything remotely fun. Hm. Maybe these people were onto something. They certainly did look like they were having a great old time. Not a care in the world. Maybe I should follow their example. Lighten up a little and try to enjoy my time in the twenties. After all, how many opportunities does one have to travel back in time?
    Though, I suppose, this was all easier said than done, considering I was apparently the evening's entertainment. And, of course, there was that whole pesky "find Nick the Prick and stop him from changing history" thing I had to contend with. Saving the world didn't leave much time for a girl to kick back a few and let her hair down.
    Daisy grabbed my hand and pulled me along. We entered the house itself and followed a long ornate hallway that opened into a huge ballroom. Dim chandeliers dripped from the ceilings. Champagne fountains cascaded on scattered tables. Waiters dressed in black tuxes wandered around with trays filled with drinks or fancy-looking canapés. And a five-piece jazz band—with…was that Louis Armstrong on the trumpet?—played gaily from a raised stage on the far side of the room.
    "Wow, good turnout," Daisy marveled. "But then, everyone always ends up at Don's house, whether they were invited or not."
    I nodded, scarcely able to take it all in. This was incredible. Absolutely amazing. I couldn't believe I was actually here, witnessing a 1929 gala firsthand. The sights, the smells, the sounds. It was overwhelming to my mortal senses. I wanted to memorize each and every detail so I could go over it all in my mind when the stimulation ended. Maybe I could even write a history book when I got back to the twenty-first century. Or at least a time-travel romance…
    I scanned the room, watching as couples teamed up to dance, holding their hands out as if they were waltzing, then bobbing from side to side in what seemed a silly manner to me but must have actually been cool in their scene. Kind of a twenties version of twerking.
    I sighed. There was no way I was going to find Nick in a crowd like this. Perhaps it'd be better just to enjoy myself and revisit the mission in the A.M.
    "Daisy, my baby!"
    I stepped back as an extremely intoxicated thirty-something man with watery eyes and pasty skin leaped through the crowd to throw his arms around my friend. He looked as if he was actually going to crush her small, birdlike frame, and she didn't appear pleased to be crushed. A moment later, she grabbed him by his shoulders and pushed him away from her.
    "I thought you were moving back to France, Scott," she scolded. "For Zelda."
    The man hung his head, looking slightly abashed. "I am. I am," he insisted. "Tomorrow morning. Really. But I couldn't leave without one more party, now could I? Especially not at Don's. Don throws the absolute best parties. Everyone says so."
    Daisy rolled her eyes. "Yes. Of course. You came for the party. As usual, Scott, you're all wet."
    He grinned. "Well, of course I also came to see you, my love." He placed a hand on her forearm. She shook it away.
    "How many times do I have to tell you, Scott? I am not your love," Daisy said with a scowl. "You have a wife, remember? A wife named Zelda? Probably suffering